


A War Less Just

by Metal_mako_dragon



Series: War and Peace [3]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Aftermath, Anders struggles to reconcile, Anders takes no prisoners, Angst, Blood and Gore, Consequences, Explicit Sexual Content, Forbidden Magic, Grey Wardens, Hawke stays, Hunted, M/M, Mages and Templars, Meredith ups the stakes, Mystery, Public Execution, Rage, Revenge, Self-Hatred, Sexual Tension, Temptation, The rebellion begins in ernest, Torture, War is coming, picking sides, something evil in the shadows, steeling oneself for what is to come
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-21
Updated: 2017-07-27
Packaged: 2017-12-20 23:08:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 145,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/892974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Metal_mako_dragon/pseuds/Metal_mako_dragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The virtue of justice consists in moderation, as regulated by wisdom" -Aristotle- </p><p>Anders and Hawke's continuing tales of adventure, love, conflict, companions, friends, templars, mages, Grey Wardens and the burgeoning of war. Kirkwall shall have its reckoning. Follows Anders and Hawke through years 5-10 of DA2.</p><p>Takes place directly after 'A Life Less Ordinary'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Patriarch

Time was an odd phenomenon. When you are having a good time it slips through your fingers like sand; when you are having an awful time it slips through your fingers like mud. When you are on the verge of death it seems to sit in the palms of your hands like a book, the pages rapidly flicking before your eyes, telling you everything and anything that you might want to remember before your mind is lost forever.

Time and death, hand in hand, had taken his soul and laid it bare. Sitting before the fire with his mother singing in the background while she sewed or cooked or bundled herbs, filling the air with delicious smells; Karl's raucous laughter when Anders had tripped Cullen with the rug, followed by reserved snickering while he was being scolded; Mr Wiggums purring contentedly as Anders scratched beneath the cat's chin, taking the moment of comfort to ignore the thought of his year long incarceration as best he could. Hawke's wonderful smiles. His calloused fingers, threading through Anders' hair. His sweet kisses, trailing along Anders' jaw. The dagger sliding into his body, the dagger spiralling away from his hand, the dagger sliding into his body, the pain, the dark and the fear slipping into numb acceptance.

There is only so long you can run from death before you are caught. Time and death, hand in hand; time had chased him down and death had taken what was rightfully his. So many times he had wanted nothing but this terrible finality to take his life and so often he had evaded its grasp. Ironically this was one of the few times his dreadful urge for death had not been true.

He did not want to die. He did not want to leave behind Hawke and his friends and his cause and the Darktowners and the resistance and Madam and his _life_. He did not want the big 'this is it' to descend and sweep it all away...but he would give it gladly in sacrifice for their lives. For Hawke, whom he loved more than his own life, and for Callum, whom he saw as so like himself. For them he would give it. For them he would gladly face the darkness with a smile and a 'you took your time'. Admittedly he had not known what to expect; eternal nothingness, a loss of all consciousness, something else entirely? In this spiral of doubt, which had continued to plague him as he wound his way through his memories and beyond, he wondered if Vengeance had been right. That there was no afterlife. That death was the end. If that is so, Anders thought, then why do I still _think_?

He did not remember waking. As quickly as he had thought that very thought, of the paradox of his continuing existence, he had found himself here. If there had been some sort of time lapse between these two rather major events, Anders knew nothing of it. One hundred years could have slipped by him like a running stream and he would have been none the wiser. All he knew, as he looked around the room in which he now stood, was that he was quite sure the afterlife wouldn't look as arbitrary as this.

It was somewhat familiar and yet not from any memory of his own. It was familiar in the way a fairy tale castle would have been familiar, as described vividly and theatrically by an enthusiastic parent. Oddly enough the transition between disembodied consciousness and this sudden wholeness of being was smooth and seemed, somehow, entirely normal. Anders looked around himself and took in this new construction with eyes unclouded by fear or doubt.

He recognised its features more than recalled the image as a whole. A small house by the feel of it, low roofed and reinforced with thick beams, a cosy fire burning in a deep fireplace, a table covered in herbs, minerals, powders and empty, sparkling vials. He could have sworn he heard chickens clucking outside the window. The air was warm, wet and smelled distinctly of marjoram. He felt as if he should know this place and yet everything was as familiar as it was unfamiliar.

It was an odd sensation, this calm. He remembered, so vaguely, the vivid pain in his chest, the idea of blood flowing and the smell of fire and rotten death. The newness and purity of the scene seemed to him a placid layer of sunlit water under which was rising a dark, hateful bubble of reality, working its way furiously towards the surface. Where is Justice? Anders thought laconically, where is Vengeance? Where am I? He turned around in a slow shuffling circle, only to stop dead as the sunlight hit his face.

The man who stood in the doorway, staring at him with a deep frown marring his forehead, was entirely unknown to him. Anders stared back, unsure what to say or feel or think. Instead of doing any of these predisposed actions the mage opted for the simpler option of taking in as much information as possible.

The stranger was taller than Anders himself although not tall in the scale of things, clothed in a rough brown shirt and black trousers. He was broad shouldered and yet did not seem overtly muscular. His face seemed somewhat recognizable, his eyes deep set and a wonderful chestnut brown beneath heavy brows, their jet blackness matching his windblown hair. The man held a long pipe in his left hand, the smoke from which tangled itself around the ivy trying to creep its way into the house through the open door. Anders thought he should feel a greater sense of displacement, of disillusionment, and yet this strange turn of events seemed to demand something of him. You should have been expecting this, the cosy and familiar scene told him, shouldn't you?

Should I? Anders thought in confusion. He stared at the man even as the urge to look down at his chest became a thick and building urge. Am I dead? He thought. Do I still bleed? Where is the knife? More importantly...

"Where am I?" he asked, amazed at the clarity and strength of his voice; for so long it had been tainted with weariness, fear or despair.

"...Somewhere I expected another to be," the man said after a long pause, his voice slightly refined and yet seemingly overpowered by a roughness only bred in the countryside; eventually he released Anders from his suspicious gaze and walked into the house. Anders was afforded a glimpse of a long, dirt path beyond the doorway and, at the end, a gathering of wooden buildings around a small square, a bridge beyond that, over a small river...it was quickly hidden from view as the man pushed the door decisively shut.

The enclosed room, without the intrusive, glaring daylight, had a soporific and gentle feel. Anders lifted his hands without forethought and rubbed at his arms, soaking in the heat. No pain, was the first thing he registered and which seemed wholly more significant, for a blazingly irrational moment, than the fact that he was apparently _alive_. He looked down unconsciously and found himself without injury, his clothes clean and mended.

"You should sit down," the man said authoritatively, jerking Anders' attention once more away from that looming reality, so much so that Anders did as he was told without question; or perhaps, he had later thought, it was more to do with the fact that in this directionless place with his mind completely lost amid scattered thoughts, he had been desperate for any sense of influence besides his own.

He could feel the heat of the fire against his side as he sat down, crackling and spitting against the crude iron grate. There was a pot hanging from a pole above the flames, audibly bubbling. The wonderful smell which emanated from it was something he had not noticed until he had witnessed the pot itself. What is this place? Anders thought warily, looking around what seemed to be a solid and altogether real space and time. The man began fiddling adeptly with the herbs and powders littered around him, pouring some into bowls and others into a large mortar and pestle to be ground down noisily.

"Excuse me," Anders said hesitantly after another minute's silence, "could you...could tell me..?"

"My, my," the man interrupted, not looking to Anders once as he put down the pestle and picked up his pipe, taking such a long draw on the pungent tobacco that the crackling emanating from the pipe nearly rivalled that of the log fire; when he stopped inhaling the man replaced the pipe back onto a plate on the table and allowed the smoke to emerge languorously from his nostrils, as a lazy dragon would, "and here I am, used to seeing you far more forceful than this."

"I don't think we've ever met," Anders rebutted quickly, feeling somewhat slighted by this stranger and his strange situation.

"We haven't," the man said, flicking his deep brown eyes up to Anders, making eye contact for the first time since they had laid eyes upon each other, "not formally. Although I have watched you both, from time to time, when there has been a chance. Now it seems you have fallen to my care, something I am not entirely sure how to deal with."

"Is this..?" Anders hesitated once more; so many questions were suddenly clamouring in his mind, fighting to work their way out of his mouth. Watching us both? What was that supposed to mean? And who was this man and where was he and was he alive or..? He sighed harshly and balled his fists. For goodness sakes what is wrong with me? I need answers and I'm pussyfooting around the subject like new born kitten, "Am I dead?"

The man did not cease in his movements. Having ground whatever was in the mortar and pestle into dust and having evacuated the full inhalation of smoke out through his nose, the man tipped the newly ground power into a glass jar along with the others. The silence was most irritating and disturbing but Anders forced himself to bear it. In a way he was glad for it. He had made himself ask the question because it needed to be answered and yet the answer itself was now nothing more than another terrible, waiting dread sitting in his mind. The man stood up from his chair and walked quietly to the other side of the room, picking up a large, earthen ware bowl and dipping it into a barrel of what looked like water. Anders stared at the table, breathing slowly in and out. The vessel was filled with a swift slosh.

"Of course you are," the man replied casually while he lifted the bowl, holding it steady as he returned to the table, "you wouldn't be here if you weren't."

"And where is here exactly?" Anders inquired quickly, unwilling to dwell on the issue of his being dead for any longer than was strictly necessary.

"That's a little more complicated," the man frowned, drawing a long, steady sigh as he ladled the water in on top of the powders, hydrating the mixture and turning it a wondrous, pale yellow, something akin to sunlight on an early summer morning, "this is...somewhere I've been keeping safe for a long time."

"Is this the Fade?" Anders asked, wondering if he could possibly just get a straight answer or whether the man was intent on being cryptic for as long as possible, "Look, can't you just tell me..?"

"I already told you that it's complicated," the man said sternly as he stirred the mixture with a long wooden spoon.

Anders opened his mouth to argue further but was interrupted by something that, once he had heard it, he wished never to hear again. Vengeance's howls from within the cage had been vile and torturous, as had the voice of Alesis as he whispered into his ear, the voice of the contemptible Pride demon the blood mage had summoned, the sounds of his victim's screams as they begged for him to stop...yet nothing compared to the noise which ripped through the serene room at that moment.

The deep, looming noise was incredible in its ability to both induce fear and be indescribable. The best Anders could do was to liken it to a dragon's death rattle, simultaneously a high pitched squeal and deep, cursing, mournful roar. He heard it as if underwater, dulled and muted. It was incredibly unnatural, a sound he could not fully describe because its elements would never be produced by anything in the real world. Yet the frightful effect did not stop at the sound itself. The distant quality of the noise was thrown by a sense destiny, of a sudden approach, of a realisation that it had sighted its prey. It made the reality around him quiver and shake subtly. It made the hairs rise up on the nape of his neck. It drew his eyes instinctually to the doorway which the man had shut behind him.

Then, just as suddenly, the serenity returned as if it had never been interrupted, crackling with the fire and clucking with the chickens.

"What was that?" Anders said in a hushed voice only after the sound had fully drifted away; talking about it when it was still occurring seemed too foolish to consider.

"Something which you don't want to be here for when it arrives," the man replied as he closed the lid on the vial and snapped it shut with a small lever.

"Really?" Anders snapped sarcastically; the noise had broken the tranquillity which had been in play since he became aware of this space around him. He wanted it back but, somehow, knew he would never get it. The finality of death seemed to once more loom over him. But I'm already dead, am I not? "Can't you just answer my bloody questions?"

"Not exactly," the man shrugged, "but this does mean that we don't have a lot of time."

"Time for what?" Anders said wearily, "I'm dead. Surely all I have is time."

When the man smiled Anders felt something akin to a small and yet surely significant triumph. The man shook his head and let out a small chuff of breath, somewhat akin to Fenris's abrupt and restrained laughter.

"Precisely what I used to think," the man said, once more looking up, "it seems there are many preconceptions we have to break down before we can truly understand death. I, myself, respect the rules it holds to; its inconsequentiality, its infiniteness, its slow degradation. I do not, however, believe in one of its many aspects; its finality."

"Are you trying to tell me that death isn't the end?" Anders asked in what he would later think as foolish contempt, "Is that it?"

"For most places, yes it is," the man said, "but not here. I spent a large part of the end of my life in terrible fear of death. It came for me not like a wild dog, leaping and ravaging me quickly, but like a cat, lying in ambush, watching me with its cruel eyes as my health failed me. I wished nothing more in those days than for death to come and take me once and for all, and yet at the same time I feared it constantly. That was when I began working on this."

The man lifted his hands and indicated the space around him. Anders took a moment to once more survey the flawless rendition of a country home and could find no fault in its constituent parts. From the stonework of the walls to the dried bundles of herbs, garlic and onions hanging above the fireplace, everything seemed both as perfect and as imperfect as real life truly was.

"It is a memory," the man said as he once more began fiddling with the ingredients on the table, "if you care to know. Somewhere I knew very well. I died in the room next door..." Anders looked instinctively to his left and observed a doorway in the far wall which he was sure had not been there moments before, "which is perhaps why I didn't choose to include it, until now of course."

"You created all of this because you were afraid?" Anders frowned, "And yet you're still here...surely then there is nothing to fear?"

"If only that were true, my young friend," the man smiled slightly, "I created this place because I feared the finality of death. I created it because, in my pride, I did not want my children to ever suffer that same fear. I created this because I knew that when he came here I would catch him. Yet it seems that things do not always work out the way you hope them to, however hard you try."

"Him?" Anders frowned, feeling a growing tension in his spine; was that a noise in the distance? There was something, definitely there, just beyond his reckoning, something that he was sure could only be growing closer, louder, "What do you mean? Wait, you weren't expecting me. Who was it, who did you want to see? And why am I here?"

"It's all very simple," the man smiled sadly, "and so very complicated. I don't have time to explain everything."

Anders opened his mouth to ask what on earth the man was talking about but was stopped once more by the blood curdling cry of the unknown presence. Yet something was different.

It was closer, _far_ closer. There is a second sound, Anders thought in fear. The cry was no longer the only frightful thing, it was now accompanied by a steadily growing din akin to beating hooves or monsoon raindrops smacking against a rooftop. It was so nerve inducing that Anders all but sprang to his feet, the air coursing in and out of his lungs. He felt terribly on edge. Everything seemed suddenly tainted by imminent destruction. He stared with wide eyes down at the man who was still seated at the table, contentedly bottling his herbs and powders.

"We have to get out of here," Anders squeezed out through his constricted throat, "please, can't you _hear_ that?"

"I hear it," the man said, "but it is nothing I can escape by running. I have been expecting it for as long as I have been expecting someone to eventually turn up here. We don't have much time. I need to know what you want to do."

"What I want to do?" Anders looked at the man, aghast, "I want to get us both the bloody hell out of here! I don't care if I'm destroyed running, I won't sit here and wait for-for...whatever is out there to show up!"

"Soon there won't be a place left to leave," the man said, sniffing and taking another draw of his pipe; the steady beat of a hundred, thousand somethings grew to an audible cacophony, "I shall put it simply. Do you choose life or do you choose oblivion?"

"Life? What are you talking about?" Anders ground out through clenched teeth, "I'm dead, you said so yourself. I remember...I remember doing it!"

"That isn't important here," the man shook his head in irritation, the first break through in his calm since the frown he had given Anders from the doorway, "this is a gateway, one of few, something that I have survived within for many years. For every gateway there is a way back and a way forwards. I need to know which you choose."

Insanity seemed to be the third brother of time and death, something which you perhaps only encountered when you finally passed beyond that which you could not return. Yet here was an insane choice, being offered to him in an insane little pocket of his own death, by a man he had never seen before in his living life while a hideous _something_ crashed towards them both.

A sacrifice of blood. That was what Vengeance had asked for and that was what Anders had given the demon in return. The sacrifice still stands, Anders thought, still stands if I live? How is any of this even possible..? No, no time for speculation, dear Maker, something is coming, something awful. We need to get out of here. I need to know...

...I need to know if Hawke is alive. I need to know. Is that a good enough reason? A reason to lose this subtle freedom which I had promised myself I would one day have? Yet death, it seems, is perhaps not as free as I first assumed. The others, they need you, and I want to live. I don't want to be dead. Please, let me go back, please...

"Let me go back home," Anders said just as another terrible squealing, like grinding metal, pierced the air and rent it viciously, "fuck!" he cried out instinctively, backing away from the table and feeling his hands begin to shake; the other man stood and stepped around the table, putting himself in front of the closed doorway, "Come with me, you have to!"

"I can't," the man said with a serious look, "it's too late for me. Listen, I did not expect to be detected so quickly. I wanted time to talk to him. I wanted time to apologise. Perhaps...perhaps you could do it for me?"

"I don't even know who you're talking about!" Anders shouted, the rising din elevating to a new level; by the Maker, it's _outside_! Anders thought, terrified.

"Tell him I'm sorry!" the man shouted over the echoing roars, high squeals and what sounded like a hundred women wailing in lament, screaming and screaming, "I'm sorry that I asked him to hold the fort!"

The room began to shake visibly, the potions on the table jiggled and rolled from the table, smashing onto the floor. The pot above the fire sloshed back and forth, spilling hissing swathes of broth down onto the smoking flames. The vibration was terrible and the fear intoxicating. The man reached out, taking hold of Anders' arm with one hand, keeping them both steady. Anders stared at him in fear while the man reached up with his other hand and took hold of something around Anders' neck. The mage was given no time to look down before the man yanked it forcefully from him, snapping the leather thong which held it to his throat. Pictures fell from the walls, stones began to work themselves loose, grinding against the mortar. When the man retracted his hand Anders was too confused and terrified to, at first, truly comprehend the significance of the silver amulet with the green stone at its centre which dangled there.

"Tell him to look after his sister!" the man yelled, "And tell him...tell him that I love him, that I always did!"

"Wait," Anders said, his face going slack, "you're..."

The rest of the sentence became lost on his tongue. His larynx continued to produce noise but it did not emerge as words. The doorway slammed open and there, behind it, loomed a terrible empty void, replacing the dirt path and the chickens and the houses and the square. It was gone, all gone, and there, standing in the doorway, half blocked by the man's body, was _it_.

Anders' eyes widened to the point of insanity. His open mouth released a scream which did little to convey the true horror of the thing he saw there. It stared at them both and time seemed to slide into its eyes. The man lifted the amulet high in the air and brought it down onto the table. The green jewel shattered audibly.

Everything disappeared.

* * *

He jerked awake with the terrible scream still full on his lips. His eyes seemed to burn as they flew open and his back sent a spasm of pain flaring through his system as he sat bolt upright. At first he could not comprehend where he was. His eyes ached. His vision was blurry and distorted. He felt himself slipping from whatever he lay upon and managed to steady himself only with great effort.

He blinked again and again, hating the darkness that descended over his eyes as he did so, vanquished over and over by the recurrence of light as his eyes slid open and closed. Soon, after a quick, shaky analysis of his situation, his pained, dry eyes took in a grey, stone room with a closed door, the two thin windows streaming blinding light onto a vague rug on the floor, and finally a small, stone alter which he was currently half falling off of. He was given no time, however, to process this new and bewildering information.

When the door banged open the blurry images that stormed inside were discernible only by their very obvious drawn swords. It took a further moment of hysterical breathing and continuous blinking to notice the bold brands on their chest plates; the white griffon rampant. Anders felt his mind flip over and over and down and up. His sheer, unadulterated panic returned. He heaved in difficult, creaky lungfuls of air tried to make his deadened limbs respond. No, he thought, no am I dead, am I _dead_ still? Where am I? It wants me, it wants me, someone help..!

Calling upon his magic was instinctual, no more than that; a need to defend himself against an obvious threat. He did not think about it, did not consider it odd, until he found that he could not call upon his reserves at all. Nothing met his call, nothing but emptiness. He tried again, desperately seeking the reason behind his sudden inability to use something he had possessed for almost his entire life. That was when he realised it. That was when he understood what he was doing wrong. He was calling on his power through Justice, through Vengeance, directly through the spirit and into the Fade itself as he always had since they had joined. It no longer worked because...because he could no longer sense Justice _or_ Vengeance, he could sense nothing of the spirit whatsoever. He had no idea as to why and it made his heart race. Is he gone? Anders thought fearfully, has he returned to the Fade? Is that it?

The only thought that struck him as he considered this incredible concept was one thing. If it was true, what had the spirit returned as? A demon or a pure spirit or...something else? Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately given his weak a vulnerable state of mind, there was little to no time for consideration of this subject.

"Anders? Anders! Get out of my fucking way!" a voice cried as a figure appeared, pushing past the fuzzy wardens and running straight at him; Anders found himself enclosed tightly within a strong pair of arms and he allowed his body to go limp, his head falling against Hawke's shoulder and laying there lifelessly, "He was right, by fucking Andraste he was _right_! Aha! Ah ha ha! I don't believe it, I don't...I can't...oh thank everything and _everyone_ that you..!"

Anders was sure Hawke would have continued if his voice hadn't, instead, strangled out into nothing. He could hear the choked emotion in Hawke's breathing, the shuddering in his body as he tried his best to hold himself together. He felt the warm lips against his cheek as Hawke leaned in to kiss him not, as usual, out of lust but seemingly more as an affirmation of Anders being alive at all. Anders could sympathise. Am I alive? he thought in fear and hope, am I alive? He both felt and heard his laboured breathing, feeling as if his throat was swollen and his chest was being stood upon by a horse's weight. The noise of each breath was creaky and loud. His mouth was terribly dry.

"Go to the dungeon and bring that idiot Callum up here!" he heard Hawke cry, "And find Howe, hurry!"

Anders opened his cracked, dry lips and brought his tongue to his hard palate. It was an action he had performed subconsciously since he had first begun to make sounds as a small baby, something entirely instinctive and intrinsic to the motion of his life so far and yet...

...and yet the word which he had been trying to form, 'don't', a simple demand, seemed to lose itself somewhere between his forming the word in his mind and creating the sound in his larynx and mouth. Anders tried form the 'd', he tried again, he tried and tried until he could no longer understand what he had first been trying to say. Hawke was talking to him, trying to explain something, trying to calm him down, trying to reassure himself, yet it all seemed to build into the same sort of cacophony as the one which...

Maker no, _no_ , I won't think of it. Never again, I can't, I won't, I _can't_..!

He lifted his right hand with terrible difficulty and placed it shakily over his right ear, his left ear pressed tightly against Hawke's shoulder, and blocked out all sound. It was an odd sensation and unfortunately it did not have the desired effect. Instead of stopping the sounds he was trying to block out it merely muted them before highlighting those he barely ever noticed. The thrumming of his own heartbeat, thumping his blood through his veins, the sound of Hawke's deep tone vibrating through his body as he spoke, the somewhat latent high pitched whistle in his ears that he couldn't account for, the thick rattling of the breath pulled heavily into his lungs and then expelled. Anders closed his eyes, desperate to stop the barrage of sensory input, desperate for quiet, but the darkness merely leered at him from behind his eyes.

His eyelids flew open, accompanied by another startling sound which it took him a moment to realise was his own rusty, crackling scream. Hawke was rocking him back and forth, making no noise other than a whispered 'shh, shh' in between kissing the top of his head softly. Anders felt the tears running down his face but couldn't comprehend what was happening. Why can't I talk? He thought desperately. What has happened to me? Am I dead? Am I alive? Where am I? What was that..that...not, _no_!

Hawke's kisses were soothing to him in an entirely regressive way. He felt safe in a childish fashion as he was rocked back and forth, as the muttered placations reached him purely through the vibrations in Hawke's chest passing through to his own body. Anders felt the soft, affectionate touches move from his hair down to his cheek once more, where Hawke lingered. Anders chanced a look up at the rogue's face, trying his best to blink some much needed moisture into his burning, dry eyes. Hawke looked terrible; deep circle's below his eyes, his face drawn and thin and yet, oddly, his cheeks rosy and filled with colour. Anders swallowed with difficulty and allowed Hawke to lean in and capture his lips. It was a union of relief as well as a declaration of feeling. Anders felt his lips trembling under Hawke's powerful embrace.

I love you, he wanted to say as they broke apart, I love you so much. Yet the hideous memory of those eyes in his mind, the revolting feeling of the knife entering his body and the sheer unknown confusion of his living or dying, seemed to stand like a barrier between his mind and his mouth. Anders pushed his face into Hawke's chest and let his hand fall from his ear as he heard footsteps approach.

* * *

Some decisions were made in haste. Not badly, just badly informed. Did you expect what you saw when you awoke? Anders' asked himself, did you expect what you felt?

No, he replied.

Did you expect to find Justice gone, it continued, did you expect to find your power weakened, to find your body useless, to find yourself surrounded by enemies?

No he replied.

Do you regret choosing the option of life?

No, he replied

He had made his decision and he would hold to it, no matter what happened after that. It seemed that it was the more difficult option, the harder option, but then when had he ever chosen anything for being _easy_? In fact sometimes he was sure he opted for the worst choice possible, most of the time witlessly.

Still, it did not matter. It was worth it just to know, know the one thing which had counted the most towards choosing life. It made him happy in his selfish joy that he was allowed to know this one thing at least; Hawke was alive. Callum was alive.

He was alive.

I have to be positive, he thought even as the monolith of dark thoughts sat in his mind, looming above his fragile sanity, I have to see further, see beyond it all.

Hope sat on the horizon, both as a rallying cry and a cruel taunt. He would reach for it, he would not fall.

He would reach for it and no fate, no destiny, would stop him.

* * *

"You're going to have to get him to talk. Do you think the Second Warden is going to stand for a silent account of the burning of Nordbotten?"

Anders sat on top of the bed, to which he had been carried after the Wardens had returned, with Hawke standing protectively at his side, and watched Nathaniel Howe pace back and forth as Callum knelt before him and checked the wounds on his chest. It was a rather surreal situation but, considering all of the bizarre and dangerous situations they had survived just to reach this point, it was actually fairly normal in comparison. Anders had forced himself to push away all of his demanding thoughts and pull himself into the here and now.

You are alive, he thought again and again, you are alive. Being unable to speak was almost an inconvenience in comparison to having his consciousness obliterated from existence. Although he was sure that excuse would become defunct rather quickly. Being unable to communicate was already hideously difficult, debilitating and increasingly frustrating. Knowing that the fault lay within his own mind, something he had always been proud of mastering, seemed to only make it worse. He should be able to master this fear, he should be able to _overcome_ this foolish obstacle and yet...and yet the darkness there still lingered.

And the darkness had _its_ eyes.

Not only that but there in the back of his mind, hiding with the dark thoughts, lurking, was the idea that he may never be able to talk again. He hid from this thought as much as it hid from him.

"I can't just _make_ him talk," Hawke replied to Nathaniel harshly, one hand placed angrily at his hip and the other planted firmly atop Anders' shoulder.

It was with subtle and yet desperate need that Anders allowed the subtle touch to act as a conduit. He had seen the colour in Hawke's face earlier, believing with all hope that was left to him that it conveyed good health and not an over stimulation of emotion. He wanted to believe that Hawke was well, that the phage no longer ravaged his body, but he couldn't and wouldn't believe it until he had checked for himself. Not that I could detect it before, Anders thought, but I can at least see how his body _feels_ ; and it felt fine. Anders found it odd, forcibly making himself seek his magical essence through his own connection to the Fade, something which Justice had completely controlled since their joining; it was a challenge but it was doable at least and he managed to survey Hawke's health without too much effort. Everything, from his organs to his nervous system, seemed in wonderful working order. Other than a little fatigue and malnutrition, Hawke seemed well and good.

"Don't you understand just how much we've gone through in the last few weeks alone, never mind everything before that?" Hawke continued to rant, "For Maker's sake we thought he was dead! It's a miracle enough that he's alive without _interrogating_ him. If your Second Warden wants to know what happened at Nordbotten maybe he should be asking that filthy corpse downstairs!"

"Which seems like a wholly unreasonable request," Howe replied, "considering he's dead."

Anders forced himself into the role he had always played, mainly as a distraction to keep the memories at bay. His mother's terrified screams, Vengeance consuming the newly dead, their blood dripping down his face, Alesis's vile words sliding into his ear, and then pact, the pact they had made...he did not face it; instead he shrugged and looked unconcernedly down at his chest which made Callum smile covertly and Nathaniel frown. Putting a smile on the other man's face made his day at least seem slightly brighter, considering the spidery shadows that still clung to his mind. Hawke simply sighed and shook his head.

"This isn't the time for your sarcasm, love," Hawke chided; Anders, despite everything, was still amazed by the fact that from his one simple gesture both Hawke and Callum had completely understood what he was trying to convey; that the dead status of whoever they were discussing was surely questionable since his own seemingly miraculous return.

Of which he had been informed, at length, by a very surprised Nathaniel Howe when the rogue had first stormed into the room, in which he had awoken, and asked Anders exactly what he thought he was doing in scaring the living hell out of his men by rising from the grave, literally. Anders would have had no answer for him even if he'd had the freedom of speech. Suffice to say that other than Nathaniel begrudgingly admitting that he was glad Anders was alive, their conversation had been rather short lived. The building questions which were still clamouring to be shouted out were left to merely stew in his mind while Anders was left trying desperately to mime whatever he wanted to know.

His voice, it seemed, was in perfect working order, confirming to Anders that the block was purely psychological. Callum had looked him over and told Hawke and Nathaniel that there seemed to be nothing physically wrong with him except from slight atrophying of the muscles, a build up of toxins in his system and weakness of constitution which, considering he'd been literally dead for over a week, put him in rather excellent health. This was all before Anders had pulled Callum into a rather spectacular hug, of course, to which Howe had once more looked confused and Hawke had ground his teeth.

Then they had told him, of the daring rescue and their long travel on the road. The Warden outpost they thought they had passed on their way to Nordbotten had turned out not to be a stronghold at all, but a camp. A camp of very familiar Wardens; the large group which Cousland had sent north after their last meeting in Kirkwall. It was a fortuitous meeting, except for the fact that he had been dead when it had happened. The Wardens had, despite Anders being sure they had not noticed them, sensed Anders as he had passed. Scouts had been sent out to follow them. When the disaster at Nordbotten erupted into an inferno the scouts had rushed back to their camp and returned with a full complement of Wardens. They had, apparently, taken care of the remaining residents of Nordbotten as best they could. Many had called it the second saviour, yet another set of Wardens riding in to save their village. The talk of the aftermath left Anders cold. For the first time since he awoke he was almost glad for his loss of speech. The deaths at Nordbotten were not something he would wish to discuss for a long time, if he ever managed to brave that excessively dark territory.

They had found them on the Hill, Hawke barely conscious and Callum screaming for help as he did his best to drag both Anders and the rogue away from the rotting corpses in the dire little burnt out husk of a house. The mage had at least heeded some of Anders' last words, having saved enough of his strength to heal his own mangled body and Hawke's rather devastated legs. The Wardens, one of which was Sarah, whom Anders had met in Kirkwall, thankfully recognised him, even in death. It was then that he learned that, if not for Callum, Anders would already have been nothing but ashes, burnt on a premature funeral pyre.

It was the tall apostate who had been stalwart, to the point of sheer obstinacy, that the clearly dead Anders was in fact alive. Apparently he could sense Anders' life force, dwindling and infinitesimal as it was, and had refused to allow his body to be served the last rights. It had taken a lot of convincing on Callum's part to persuade the others of this truth, during which some rather unsavoury facts about the mage's involvement with Alesis had come to light. Which made more sense to Anders who had, at first, been wondering why on earth Callum had been brought up to them from the dungeons.

When Callum was finally dragged to their room it had been to both Hawke and Nathaniel's consternation that Anders, as soon as Callum was at arm's length, had reached out and shaken the heavy chains linking his wrists angrily and looked to the other men with a stern countenance. He helped save our lives, Anders had thought furiously as Hawke shook his head, Maker damn you both he saved _my_ _life_! He had shaken the chains again and glared at his lover as crossly as he could manage considering his lack of energy.

"Fine, take them off," Hawke had spat, "it'll make it easier for him to work. But just his hands. Leave the feet."

At first, once Callum had begun his work, Anders had been amazed that they were somewhere with a dungeon at all. Which was then he had been informed exactly where they were.

 _Weisshaupt_? He had thought in panic. The one place I didn't want to be and that's where you've led us! The glare he already had focused on Hawke had merely intensified, to which the rogue had looked neither repentant nor upset. Choosing life over oblivion had suddenly seemed like a very bad decision. Am I to live once more only to die at the executioner's sword? he had thought with facetious humour. Which was when he had been informed that the First Warden was at least absent from the stronghold, leaving his second in command in charge during his absence. It was small consolation but consolation at least; from what Anders had heard of the First warden the man was a strict traditionalist and rather bigoted towards mages. Anders' miraculous recovery from death apparently already had half of Weisshaupt looking for his head, suspecting blood magic, without their biased leader there to fuel their distrust.

"If the Second Warden wants to know what happened I can tell him everything he needs to know," Hawke said sternly, unmovable as a brick wall, as he usually was when someone threatened his authority or those he cared about, "that Nordbotten was attacked by a demon, a demon summoned by that same corpse now lying in your basement. I'm quite sure that the survivors you brought with us can corroborate my story. In fact I'm sure they already have, which makes this discussion a moot point."

Anders sighed, thinking that his own antagonistic contributions to this conversation, for which Hawke had scorned him, were nowhere near as inflammatory as Hawke's own words. Anders ignored them both as they continued to squabble. He couldn't focus on it or entirely grasp everything they were saying. All he knew was that if Hawke could convince Nathaniel then, perhaps, Nathaniel could convince this Second Warden. If that happened, then it happened. No matter what anyone did, even himself, he could not breach the barrier that appeared like a looming monolith of hideous murk in his mind every time he tried to speak.

He was already finding it difficult to purely focus on the situation at hand or the horrors lurking in his recent memories. Both were just as confusing and sickening as each other. Distraction, Anders thought as he reached out and touched Callum's shoulder, getting the man's attention. The tall mage looked as healthy as Hawke did but also just as tired and thin. His vivid blue eyes seemed dulled and broken, something that pulled at Anders' heart. It wasn't your fault, he thought over and over. Even without proof to back up his claim he somehow knew that Callum was innocent. Seeing him persecuted for being deceived by Alesis was almost too much to bear. Anders knew exactly what that felt like. Instead he tried to divert both their minds from their current predicament while Hawke and Nathaniel bartered back and forth.

Callum watched him closely as Anders struggled to think of a way to ask his question. Maker this is hard, Anders thought in terrible frustration. He tried to shake his hand to indicate a tail, but that only confused the taller man, then he even tried indicating ears on his own head, which only made Callum's frown deepen; eventually he used his right hand to mime stroking a dogs head. Callum finally nodded in understanding, his face drawn.

"Sascha's fine," he said with a weak smile.

Anders felt cold. He watched Callum with a hopeful and yet sad expression as he brought up his hand in a fist, palm forwards, and lifted his index and middle finger, indicating the number two. Callum looked at his hand as if it were some sort of condolence. He shook his head and returned to his work. Anders felt his heart sink further and let his hand drop, swallowing with difficulty. After a respectful moment of silence he lifted his right hand and stroked the side of the other mage's face. Callum leaned into the touch ever so slightly and his eyes fluttered closed, hiding glassy eyes. Anders retracted his hand once more and stared into space.

The time before Nathaniel left was indeterminate. Anders felt himself falling back into the strange numb calm which he had felt before he closed his eyes in death and which he had initially felt in the strange dream of salvation he'd had before he awoke here. When he was gone, however, with Hawke telling him that he would personally keep an eye on Callum, closing the door exasperatedly behind him, Hawke wasted no time in sitting down on the edge of the bed and looking straight into Anders' eyes.

"What happened to Justice?" he asked bluntly.

Callum looked up, trying to mask his interest but failing miserably. Anders looked back forth between them both and could do nothing but shake his head and lift his hands impotently. He too wanted an answer to that question, complicated as it was. Hawke sighed and rubbed gently at the small of Anders' back. The mage revelled at the wonderful, _real_ feeling of Hawke's touch against his skin, allowing the sheer physicality of the action to pull his mind away from the dangerous, dark thoughts which prowled his mind, demanding answers.

What had happened to Justice? Justice no longer existed, as far as Anders could understand it, and neither did Vengeance to an extent. The spirit who had closed Anders' eyes, whose words had followed him down into the deepest reaches of death, had been something else altogether. Anders himself struggled to understand exactly what that was. He wasn't sure if he could ever truly understand the concept of something so new, an entirely original being, something that wasn't technically _anything_ ; nothing that could be defined in words, perhaps only in feelings. The hideous tainted feeling he had felt when he had stared at the trapped spirit howling in its prison, the wonderfully safe feeling he had felt as it had touched his eyes closed. The apathy and the contrast and the infectious familiarity all fell into one strange, confusing abyss which he could not bring himself to look down into.

He looked down as Callum pulled his shirt closed and leaned back, obviously finished dealing with his many wounds. It was then that Anders realised that his clothes were not, to an extent, _his_ clothes. He frowned, tugging at Hawke's shirt as he pulled at his own clothes in confusion.

"What is it?" Hawke frowned, "you...need something else to wear?"

Anders bit his lip in frustration and shook his hand, indicating to forget that he mentioned anything in the first place. Hawke seemed like he would inquire further but, from the look Anders was sure he had on his face, Hawke respectfully gave up trying. The silence that descended on the three men was edgy and taught. Anders hated it. He lifted his hand once more and pointed forcefully down at the floor, repeating the motion. Hawke stared at him, his sharp eyes conveying just how hard he was trying to understand Anders' motions. The mage stopped pointing downwards and instead started alternating the gesture with another; his hand sliding across his throat.

"Who is the filthy corpse downstairs?" Hawke asked eventually, repeating his earlier phrase.

Anders nodded enthusiastically. He had a sneaking suspicion but he wouldn't believe it until he heard it.

"It's Alesis," Hawke said with a wry twist to his lips and a violent sparkle to his eye, "the Wardens found his body lying half way down the hill. There didn't seem to be anything wrong with him but he was stone dead, just like he deserved. All I regret is not being allowed to eviscerate the bastard myself."

A bright flash of exaltation entered his system and yet it was simultaneously dampened by an all too familiar inconvenience. Too easy, Anders thought harshly, it's all too pathetically simple. Alesis dead? Killed by his own summoned Fade spawn? It was fittingly ironic and yet did not seem to fit well in Anders world as he believed it should be. Yet neither does coming back from the dead, he thought. The twin thoughts of his own salvation and Alesis' incongruous death were not something he would want associated. Anders rubbed at the flesh of his arms, feeling the goose bumps as his flesh prickled. He looked once more to Hawke.

How dead is dead, truly? And how alive are those with life? I am given life once more only to be trapped again within this web of rules and regulations, labelled traitor. Yet I am, a traitor to my own feelings. I led us all, all of us, to what was very nearly our deaths. Yet you still love me Hawke, why? Why is this? After all I've done and all you have reciprocated and our love still exists. Is this what true love is? It just...keeps going, no matter what. There was an odd comfort in that, in the stability and reliability, and yet something strangely stale pervading it. His fears and doubts and terrors had before forced him to the extremes of his emotion but now, having come down, even if only slightly, from the high of death, he was beginning to view the world through cynical eyes once more.

"Alright," Hawke said after another moment's silence, "if we're going to do this, then we have to do it now."

The suddenness of his statement and its seeming incongruousness made both of the mages look to him in confusion. Hawke, in contrast to their bewilderment, was surveying the room with inquisitive, serious eyes. I can't talk, Anders thought sarcastically as he watched Hawke, and I make more sense than you do.

"What are you talking about?" Callum asked with a frown, finally voicing Anders' own thoughts, still kneeling on the floor with his legs bound.

"What do you think I'm talking about?" Hawke said impatiently as he slipped an unseen key from his shirt cuff, "I'm talking about getting the hell out of this death trap. I don't know about you two," he continued as he knelt down behind a startled Callum and undid his leg bracers, "but I think we've already outstayed our welcome."

"You..." Callum stared at him in disbelief, "where in Thedas did you get that key?"

"You're not the only one with light fingers," Hawke said with latent pride, "and Nathaniel Howe doesn't know how to protect his belongings."

"But..." Callum continued warily; Anders simply stared at Hawke with guilty affection. That I ever doubted you my love, Anders thought with renewed vivacity, pressing his dark thoughts further from his conscious mind, "what are you doing? I thought..?"

"You thought what?" Hawke said with an, albeit small, smile and a raised eyebrow, "that I was going to sit here and wait for them to come back and slice Anders' head off for either being a blood mage or a Grey Warden deserter?"

"Actually," Callum said as he stood up, his tall form dwarfing Hawke as he knelt and Anders as he sat, "I was thinking more of the part where you were letting me go."

Hawke watched them both, standing up slowly. Anders held hope in his eyes while Callum held disconcerted confusion. The rogue shook his head and placed his hands on his hips, looking towards the window as he spoke.

"You must be dense," he said, "do you think I have no heart in my chest? You were taken in by Alesis? Well you're not the first person to be deceived by a blood mage and you won't be the last. I'm not saying that I forgive you, I can still hold _other_ offences against you, but...I'm saying that I trust you enough to help me. You saved the life of the one person in this shit hole of a world that makes it worth living and you think I'd just leave you here to die? Because that's what is going to happen. These Wardens will hand you to the templars and they, in turn, will kill you. I, for one, am not going to be responsible for that. All I want, all I _need_ , is to get back to Kirkwall where we are safe. Where my name means something again. Where I can protect Anders. Now are you going to help me get him home or aren't you?"

Anders wouldn't have had any words to say even if his mind would let him speak. The muscles in his legs felt strange as he rose unsteadily from the bed, as if they were not fully connected to the rest of his body. Anders wobbled but did not let either Callum or Hawke hold him steady as he faltered. It was with difficulty that he managed to stumble the five shuffling paces to Hawke's side but he forced himself to manage it. If we're going to escape from here, he thought with determination, then I can't be a dead weight dragging us down.

He reached up with both hands and slipped his arms around Hawke's shoulders. The other man did not seem to have been expecting it, going rigid in the mage's grasp. There was a hushed silence, in which Anders leaned back slightly so as to place a lingering, chaste kiss against Hawke's throat. He felt the rogue swallow and breathed in deeply, savouring the musky smell even as it was mixed with the heady scent of unwashed flesh. Hawke seemed to pull back unwillingly and yet with a sense of purpose. He looked into Anders' eyes and nodded. Anders responded by kissing him. Yet it was not simply a kiss, it was a declaration of love in its purest form. No words and no promises, just plain and simple, unmitigated love. He held Hawke close. He could feel the muscles moving in the rogue's arms as they slid around him and held him in return.

He poured everything he had into their embrace; his hope, his fear, his needs, his wants, his truth, his lies, his passion and his apathy. All the contrasting aspects of his almost vicious love for the man he embraced were fed into the kiss. I'm going to take care of you, Anders thought as he pulled back, staring at Hawke thoroughly, I'm going to look after you until I can no longer.

You're a beautiful person, Garret Hawke, he thought as he gripped Callum by the arm and smiled at the man. With his other hand he reached up to grasp the silver amulet with the green jewel at its centre which still hung around his neck. He lifted it up and stared at it; the jewel at the centre was fractured, straight through the middle, and it no longer gave off the magical radiance it always had at his touch.

"I told you that I would never lose you again," Hawke said with harsh determination, staring into Anders' eyes, "and I meant it. We're going home, love. I'm going to take us home."

You're a beautiful person Garret Hawke, Anders thought as he closed his hand around the silver amulet and shut his eyes, and your father loves you very much.


	2. Illusive

He held onto the reigns, slick with rainwater, and bowed his head beneath the hood on his cloak. The horse moved beneath him and the horses in front and behind snorted in the cold, moist air. He felt the tension running rampant through his body, hunching his shoulders forwards and trying his best to make himself inconspicuous.

He felt for the trembling chain of magical energy that shimmered within him and focused upon it. Don't let them see us, he repeated over and over in his head as he closed his eyes, walked Bryn across the courtyard and out through the heavily guarded portcullis.

For a brief moment of desperate selfishness, Anders found himself forgetting to check if Hawke and Callum were even following.

* * *

Freedom, as a rather abstract and elusive concept, was entirely as irritating as any other fateful, controlling aspect of his life. He had always lusted after it, like a frightful obsessive after an oblivious lover, always just out of reach, always just beyond his abilities and situation. Now, here, it was all around him and he couldn't understand why the reality of what he had found was so very different than the illusion he had been pursuing for so many years. Garnering his very soul to himself once more, his mind free to have its own thoughts, his body under his control, the Fade spread out about him like some lost nirvana. There was no fanfare, there was no sudden epiphany, there was no change.

The world stayed as the world was. The life that was supposed to effervesce with revolution stayed beneath the grey sky and above the muddy ground. It was different, yes, but it was not the difference he had been expecting. Anders stared down into the muddy pool beside the road, listening to the creaking cart wheels roll past, sloshing through puddles, and the horse's hooves squelching in the wet ground. He watched the raindrops hit the water and felt them against his cheeks and neck.

Was there ever the chance of catching the dream he had envisioned? Or, more to the point, was the dream merely an illusion cast to tempt him?

"Oi, Anders?" a voice called; Anders looked up sharply and found the slightly dirty face of Hawke looking back at him as he held Bryn's reigns tightly in his gloved hand; the company was moving slowly but steadily, Callum walking a little further ahead with the main wagon, Sascha at his side.

Of course, everything came with a price. In regaining control of his body, in freeing Justice, he had lost something he didn't realise was so precious until it was gone. He instinctively opened his mouth to call back a reply to Hawke before his mind caught up with the gesture and harshly reminded him of its futility. The words would not come, seeming enveloped in the darkness of his own mind. He snapped his mouth shut tightly and balled his fists.

"Keep up," Hawke said with a small smile, which the mage forced himself to return as he walked to Hawke's side.

Yet he could not be ungrateful for all things. Sometimes he marvelled at the simplicity of the things in his life which, on the surface, appeared to be unsurpassable, and was even more perplexed when the simple things suddenly became the obstacles. Escaping Weisshaupt had been far easier than they had expected, mainly because of the allies which they hadn't banked upon.

Suffice to say that, despite Hawke's artful theft of the key to Callum's fetters, their escape did not go as well as they had foreseen. In fact they barely made it down the spiral staircase of the tower, through two short corridors and then out into the courtyard before they were seen. They had been going for speed more than stealth, as stealth in a place such as Weisshaupt was rather senseless. Unfortunately, it seemed, so was purely banking upon speed.

"Hold them!" had been the warning shout, after which came the immediate sounds of clanking armour and rushing feet. Wardens were nothing if not efficient. The fear he had felt was not bare, it was enveloping. Death was all that awaited him here, a humiliating, wasted death. He felt as if something he had already barely escaped was searching for him with greedy eyes and slavering jaws. The hard, grey stone around him and the steel grey sky above felt as a cage once more. He rushed after Callum's fleeing image even as he saw the Wardens rushing from the door they had been hurrying towards.

The hand that grabbed his arm was cold and hard, a steel gauntlet which bit into his flesh through the thin cloth of his shirt. He had opened his mouth to cry out and closed his eyes in anger and frustration when the debilitating fear rose to taunt him, catching the words and crushing them before he had a chance to shout. The only thing which had been able to stem his fear was, once he had spun around, that he recognised the face of the woman who held him. He had looked into her eyes, devoid of malignancy, and felt a sort of calm inveigle its way into his panic. He heard the others shouting as they were subdued but could not raise the fear back into its rightful place in his swiftly beating heart. When he had turned to look at Hawke and Callum, struggling against the well armoured Wardens, all he could focus on was Nathaniel Howe striding towards him. Anders had stared at him in confusion until he stopped in the middle of the disorder, eyeing them all sternly.

"Alright, it seems that lock and key isn't enough for you," Howe said in, what Anders thought, was a convincingly cold voice, "perhaps the dungeons will suit you better! Kathleen, Aemon, Frederick, escort them."

"But Sir, the Second Warden will want to hear of this..." one of the Weisshaupt Wardens spoke up, stepping forwards.

"Don't question me," Howe barked sternly, making the young Warden flinch back, adequately chastised, "you may return to your duties, I have this situation perfectly under control and, _if_ you don't agree perhaps you can inform the Second Warden of your grievances."

"N-no Sir," the Weisshaupt Warden stuttered out.

"You can't keep us locked up here!" Hawke shouted as the Weisshaupt Wardens retreated back and Howe and his troops began to haul them forwards, "Damn you man, don't you know what will happen?"

"Shut your mouth before I gag it shut," Howe had said back icily before gesturing sharply for his troops to hurry their pace.

Surprisingly, despite their altercation and Howe's fine acting, Anders had not once suspected that they were truly being dragged to the dungeons. A fact which Hawke did not seem to understand as he continued his tirade against the ambivalent Howe. Yet one Anders found happily verified when the strong smell of hay became more prominent and the sounds of horses became too obvious to ignore. The stables were empty but bright with the light of the overcast sky and Anders found himself never more thankful that he had friends with quick minds.

"Get them changed and on the horses _now_ ," Howe said quietly to his men, while Hawke looked around him in confusion.

"What do you think you are doing?" Hawke bit out, his voice low but no less vehement.

"I have no time to explain this to you," Howe said as he shoved a heavy cuirass into Hawke's arms, "so do not argue and do as you are told."

"But how did you even..?" Callum started to ask.

"Do you really think you _stole_ that key from me?" Nathaniel said with an arrogant look at Hawke, making the rogue visibly bristle, "We are leaving, all of us, but it must be now, before anyone notices your absence. So put on the armour and move it."

Thankfully Hawke's tendency to argue was quelled long enough for them to make their daring and yet understated escape. Callum had even convinced Nathaniel to allow him to sneak Sascha out along with them, despite the dog surely raising suspicion. Everything seemed to suddenly be going _right_. Not that Anders hadn't been scared, he who had looked into the eyes of death and lived to tell the tale, it was just that in all honesty he'd not been given time to be worried about the ramifications of being caught...again. The fact that, if he had stayed, he would surely have been summarily executed anyway made the entire thing a lot easier.

It was only once they were safely away from the Keep, Howe and his company of Wardens surrounding them like a shroud, did everything fall unhappily into place.

* * *

They travelled hard and fast, managing to reach humble beginnings of the great river Bradanus not long after nightfall, the river which wound its way from the ruins of the Blasted Hills and poured into the sea far to the east in an impressive delta near Wycome. The horses were tired and Anders could sympathise. So many miles in one day, riding into the twilight, was enough for any person or beast. Piling that on top of his already fatigued body and broken mind, it did not give him much chance to rest or think. In a way he could be glad for that and in another he could not. He would say that finally finding a place to sit that wasn't moving around beneath him and constantly wandering off to find grass to eat did help, but then rest merely brought him time to brood upon everything which had preceded that moment.

The camp was busy and yet mainly quiet. Everyone had their routine and their job; marking the perimeter, laying wards, collecting firewood, setting up tents. It reminded Anders of the old days, of the warm feeling of belonging that came from working in such a close knit group of people. He would admit that he would have felt out of place, had he the time to fully consider his surroundings. As it was, he found himself far too focused on the words Nathaniel Howe had just spoken. They sat by the newly lit fire, Hawke to his left sitting upon a long sloping rock. The man's green eyes seemed black in the gloom, flickering in the firelight. Anders felt his mind rushing incomprehensibly. He wished he could voice it but, even at that thought, wasn't sure what he would have said if he could.

"You can't be serious," Hawke said, his voice dead pan and cold, as it always was when shocked.

"As if I would lie about something this serious," Howe said, frowning, "believe me, I wish it _were_ a lie. News reached Weisshaupt just after I left you in the tower. In fact I was on my way back to collect you when we found you in the courtyard. Rather lucky really."

"It's not..." Hawke stopped, his mouth hanging open for a few seconds before he closed it again and swallowed, "how could this happen?"

"An insurrection that we should have seen coming," Howe said in reply, calm and straight forwards as always, "but there is nothing we can do about this now and there is nothing more I can tell you of the circumstances."

"Let me fucking guess," Hawke said angrily, making Anders reach over and touch his arm to try and calm him, "Warden business! As if this is the time or place for..!"

"Every time and every place is the time for me to uphold my vows," Howe said sternly, shaking his head when Hawke merely glared at him, his mouth a tight line, "listen to me, I know you do not appreciate this secrecy but I have no choice. It is best this way. I have told you all that I can."

Howe stood to leave, seeming to realise that there was no longer any reason for his presence. Almost simultaneously Hawke rose from his seat, his face the picture of suppressed emotion.

"I...I need to take a walk," Hawke said succinctly before he turned and strode stiffly towards the darkness surrounding the camp.

Anders looked back and forth mutely, his mind spinning. As long as the three of them had been sitting, talking, in that same space and same place, everything had seemed so very unreal. Now, as they split apart, the truth of the situation seemed to crash down upon him. He felt sick. He stumbled to his feet and wasn't sure where to put them after that. Somehow he managed to rush after the retreating figure of Nathaniel Howe and found the purpose of mind to grab hold of his arm. Howe spun around with a slightly stunned look until he saw who had arrested him. There was a moment of silence as the two regarded each other, the sound of people working in the background, the harsh roar of the fire when the wind picked up and fanned the flames. Nathaniel sighed as Anders let go of his arm but the mage kept his eyes intent.

"I think I know what you want to hear," Howe said, his eyes hard, "but all I can give you is the truth. I...am finding this a little overwhelming myself. So unexpected and yet, somehow, inevitable. I told him it was foolish to keep up this relationship, as if it could ever last. But then when has he ever listened to anyone?"

Anders felt his chest tighten, as if it were crushing inwards upon his heart. The ache was a dreadful reminder of past pain, of moments in his life when he knew he had lost something which he held so dear and that it was never coming back. He felt it in sympathy for his Commander, even though he knew it would make no difference. He couldn't help it. Howe must have seen something in his blank stare because he reached out and patted Anders a little awkwardly on the shoulder before he turned to leave, already giving orders to those around him as he walked off into the gloom, leaving Anders alone with his thoughts.

The King of Ferelden was dead.

The country he had called home for more years than he would care to count was raised in civil war.

The one safe haven for his kind had devolved into petty squabbling over power while Orlais was surely looming in the background, like a carrion bird waiting for its prey to breathe its last breath.

Everything he had relied upon from Ferelden and now all of the progress that had been made seemed to have been viciously crushed in a few blood smeared days. The news that the mages had sided with the rebellion was merely another slap in the face to add to the beating his mind had already taken as Nathaniel relayed the sordid tale.

Yet, above all of that, he could not shake a thought which, in comparison, seemed far more trivial and yet, intrinsically, more important. His best friend's reason for living had been brutally stripped from this earth. The thought made Anders feel oddly hollow and dazed. He knew that feeling, he knew what must be wracking the man's body even as he put a brave face on it and carried on. He knew Cousland too well not to know what the man would do in the face of this; he was quick tempered but there was the underlying opportunity for deep seated feeling, for grudges to be held, for great anger and pain, too heavy to bear, to be stored. Anders lifted his hands to rub absently at his arms. He knew Lien Cousland and, orders or no orders, there would be blood to pay before this was over.

* * *

Hawke was impossible to find, much to Anders' dismay. The camp had slowed, from its hastened but ordered activity, to a complete and silent standstill. The tents were filled with the soft sounds of breathing and subtle snoring as Anders wondered between them, shrugging into the thick, fur lined coat which one of the Wardens had given to him not long after their escape.

To say that his mind was a mess would be an understatement. Yet, saying that he was unable to deal with it would also be a lie. The ground made a fresh, crunching noise beneath the soles of his boots as he picked his way towards the edge of the camp, staring out into the darkness that loomed up like a wall, as if to close him inside. Anders breathed in deeply and let it out slowly in a stream of smoke like air.

It was not that he could not deal with everything he had experienced since this fateful trip had started, yet more that he did not wish to deal with it alone if it was at all possible to avoid. Garret Hawke had become something which he had never truly expected of the man; a constant companion, someone who did not seem to have grown tired of him or frustrated or incensed or to have suddenly realised just what sort of person he had attached himself to. Of course he and Hawke had experienced nearly all of those things, but they were fleeting or had been resolved along the way. Whenever Anders was worried that things between them were irrevocable, Hawke turned around with a smile and an outstretched hand. Sometimes, he would admit, it seemed far too reliable.

Perhaps I'm just waiting for the day when he decides that I'm not worth reaching for, Anders thought wryly, or perhaps even the other way around. The frozen air nipped at his skin as he continued to stare out over the abyss like landscape. The sound of footsteps caused him to turn and look behind him, only to find one of Howe's troop on patrol of the camp. Anders nodded to the woman who, curtly, nodded in return. Anders folded his arms and pushed his hands up underneath his armpits for warmth.

It felt odd, to be truly honest, for the mage who had for so long been as one with another soul, to suddenly find himself alone. Anders had not been given the time to realise this until he found himself on his own, in the dark and the silence. Normally, it was at times like these, in isolation or solitude, that he had been able to feel Justice's presence all the more clearly. They had been together for so long that Anders had begun to feel the spirit as if he were background noise, a constant but, over time, almost imperceptible presence. Most of the time, he could guiltily admit, he had spent trying his best to suppress his friend's fervour and stop him from taking over Anders' own body. Yet, in the silence, he had always been able to feel Justice, like a slow, shallow pulsing heartbeat within his own life force.

Here, now, after their sudden and jarring division, Anders felt his lack the most. What sort of life did I imprison you to? Anders wondered as he looked upwards to regard the myriad of stars that waited in the night sky. I'm sure you must be happier now, Justice, free from me. All I ever did was turn you into the thing you hated the most. Anders tried to put some sort of conviction into his thoughts, hoping naively that Justice may even be able to hear him, wherever he was now...but he could not truly mean it. He missed Justice despite knowing they were better apart. His friend had saved him even as he had doomed him, much the same as Anders had done for Justice. They were never meant to be and yet they had worked so very well together. Now Anders felt as if he would never even rightly understand just what had happened to his best friend. Justice had vanished before his dying eyes and all the mage could do now was hope and wish that the spirit had found his way home.

"A bit cold to be standing this far from the fire, eh?"

The voice made him jump comically and suck in a lungful of freezing air, twisting round as he slowly released the pent up breath. Callum stood behind him, seemingly unrepentant, with a sly smile upon his face. Anders shook his head and tried to return the smile. He wasn't sure if it worked. The sight of Callum only made the memories of that night all the clearer, of Justice's shining form, those terrible amber eyes so very like his own...

It was at that moment Anders missed his voice the most. Normally he would have taken the awkwardness and dispersed it with a simple joke or innuendo. Instead he found himself bereft of his best weapon, left dangling at the mercy of another's ability. Callum seemed to pick up on his unease and cleared his throat loudly, walking forwards until he was standing side by side with Anders. The still air settled around them and the man did not say anything more. Anders tried, vainly, to summon the wherewithal to talk but, just as all the times before that, he could not understand how to form the word. Something which he had been able to do for as long as he could remember was now as unknown to him as blood magic or Qunari customs. He balled his hands into fists and hugged himself tighter. Fuck my life, he thought savagely. It was immature but, at that moment, he didn't feel that ceremony needed to be stood upon.

"It's a good feeling, isn't it?" Callum said abruptly, pulling Anders gaze to him; the taller mage looked down at the other with a wry smile, "being free that is."

Anders nodded slowly, not sure where the other man was going with his small talk. I'm quite sure we've been through enough together to miss out this discomfort, haven't we? Anders thought. He sighed and looked around him, hoping to catch sight of Hawke. Standing with Callum only made him feel uneasy. Ever since he found out that the man had essentially been working for Alesis, however unwittingly, Anders wasn't sure how to act around him. You were duped by Alesis too, Anders' conscience tried to remind him. He tried to ignore that fact. Yes he wanted the other man to be free, yes he cared for him but...nothing could be that simple.

"Of course, not when you're..." Callum's cheerful voice trailed off as Anders looked back to the man; Callum's blue eyes seemed to catch the light of the fire but the worry there was evident. Anders did not break their stare. Callum swallowed. He was the first to look away, down towards the dark grass beneath his feet. Anders turned his eyes back towards the sky and waited, "I...I'm so sorry. For everything, Anders," Callum said in a hushed voice.

It would have been surprising if he hadn't known Callum as well as he felt that he had come to over the past month. Naive, trusting, kind, clever, sassy; he was everything Anders had once been, before he became a jaded old fool. Anders snorted and shook his head. Since when am I old? he thought. He looked to Callum as the man stood contritely to his right, his brow furrowed and face crumpled in remorse. Anders reached over, his fingers curling against the sudden loss of warmth, and stroked Callum's arm as reassuringly as he could. The taller man tried to smile through his grief, distorting his mouth, and nodded his head mutely.

"I know I should tell you, but it'll only sound like excuses," Callum said, "I thought I was doing something good, something right. He made it sound as if it were a matter of life and death and after I saw you in Kirkwall..."

Anders looked to Callum and the other man shuffled his feet. Not that I hadn't figured out that he was delivering the letters to me, Anders thought, but I didn't realise he was the reason I felt watched all that time.

"But if I'm going to do this, then perhaps I should do it properly, no?" Callum said, looking away from Anders even as the smaller man moved to his side and leaned against the taller man; for warmth, Anders told himself. Huh, his conscience needled him, what became of you feeling awkward around him, eh? Anders kindly ignored his conscience and focused on Callum's words, "I met him in Ferelden, Alesis that is. It wasn't long before the King declared that the Chantry was decommissioned, but when I first saw him we were still fugitives. I won't lie, he looked like a helpless idiot when he stumbled into the bar where I was drinking. I felt like someone had to take care of him or he would get himself found, bloody hell I thought he'd get us all found, I..."

Sounds familiar, Anders thought ruefully. Alesis had inveigled his way into the Kirkwall resistance in a similar fashion. Anders slipped his arm into Callum's and felt a warmth spread through his body. Callum squeezed his arm in response, while Anders shifted a little uncomfortably. There was a terse moment where neither spoke, mainly because they did not need to.

"I suppose we became friends, of a sort," Callum said, snorting derisively, "he told me that he was on the run from the Free Marches, that the templars there had nearly killed him before he escaped," well he was _half_ right, Anders thought angrily, "we stayed together with a few friends I had at the time. It didn't take long for him to tell me about you."

Anders looked around at the sound of footsteps once more, suddenly fearing it was Hawke, only to find the same Warden on patrol, passing them by as if she did not see them.

"He told me that you were a friend in trouble," Callum said, "and that he needed to get word to you. I told him that I had friends who could smuggle letters to the Free Marches, but he would hear none of it. 'I need someone I can trust to deliver them' he told me. You know, even if you asked me right now I don't know why I ever agreed to any of the things he asked of me. It all seemed so simple at the time, as if it made perfect sense. You were a friend in trouble, he had to travel to the Anderfels so that he could help you, and I was the perfect choice to deliver his letter to you. His journey choice seemed a little extreme at the time, I remember that, but he made such a convincing case."

The derisive laugh should have been expected but Anders still felt sad at the thought of someone as innocent as Callum being taken in by a demon such as Alesis. He wound his hand up to Callum's bicep, still with their arms interlinked, and tried to hold him comfortingly. Callum's smile was a little stronger this time.

"I won't lie and say that I didn't want to leave Ferelden again anyway," Callum continued, "it was good to be on the move. All my life I've been running. It's become difficult to be stationary. Me and the dogs...we liked it. Moving from place to place, always one step ahead of the templars, plying my trade for any who would take it. So when I came to the Free Marches with your letter in my pocket, it didn't feel like a chore, not really. I'd heard tales of the templars in the Marches, of their hostility and efficiency, but it was nothing I'd not encountered before. Then I saw you."

Anders took a deep breath and stared straight forwards into the gloom. He could feel Callum's eyes boring down onto the top of his head, that familiar feeling of eyes upon him. Don't make this harder than it needs to be, Anders said to himself. Callum's warmth was already rather intoxicating as it was.

"I'm not saying there was anything at first sight, I'm not that stupid, you're an attractive man but..." Callum stopped short, realising that he was rambling, "I didn't realise how long I would have to be there. The letters kept coming, with notes from Alesis that I needed to keep a close eye on you, saying that the man who you were associating with was a terrible person who treated you poorly. Unfortunately for Serrah Hawke my dislike for him stemmed from before I first saw how he treated you. I think it was a mixture of Alesis's orders and my own curiosity which were my undoing. I was captivated by you long before I met with you in Cumberland."

You can stop being so charming any time you like, Anders thought as he licked his lips nervously. Callum leaned in a little closer but did not try anything further than that.

"After a while I became a little more daring, I'll admit, but never enough to come face to face with you," Callum said with a small, embarrassed laugh, "I'd sneak into your house and put the letters in odd places just so I could watch for your reaction. I'm sorry if it worried you, I just...oh, I don't know what the heck I'm saying. I had a few allies in Kirkwall who delivered letters for me, I didn't want to get too close, be seen. One of them, she told me about Serrah Hawke's plans for a trip and I was just...concerned. I didn't know what was going to happen I just felt like I needed to make sure you were safe so...I followed you when you left for Cumberland and, in all honesty, it was a bit of a coincidence that I met you in the street that day. I just decided to take advantage of it. For which I am very glad."

Callum's sudden movement took Anders by surprise. One moment they were standing placidly and yet tensely beside each other, the next Callum had a hold of Anders' upper arms and had jerked him close, staring down into the smaller man's eyes intensely.

"Because that bastard Alesis lied to me about _everything_ ," Callum snarled, "and I've lost enough in this joke I call a life to lose anything else to a wretched blood mage like him. I swear I didn't know Anders, I didn't _know_! He tricked me and I'll never forgive myself for it, for nearly getting you killed, for everything! I wish I'd killed him with my own bloody hands..!"

It was an innocent mistake. Anders couldn't bear to hear Callum so distraught, all over something he had no real control of. With no way to voice his thoughts he reacted purely on instinct. He had reached up and placed his fingers over Callum's lips before he could think about what he was doing. Callum stared at him so intensely Anders felt as if he could be swallowed up within those eyes. He felt Callum's lips part beneath his fingertips, sensitive flesh brushing against sensitive flesh. The next thing he knew Callum had pulled him tight against his warm, hard body and was kissing him feverishly. Anders tensed, his fingers curing instinctively into the heavy material of Callum's jacket. It was difficult to extricate himself from Callum's hold, not just because the other man was strong, insistent and larger than he, but mainly because the comfort that came from the kiss was something Anders had been craving from someone, anyone, since he had awoken from his sleep of death.

He wouldn't lie and say Callum didn't look disconsolate as Anders slowly pushed him away, but Anders bore through it. I care for you a great deal, Anders thought, but I can't do this. Bloody hell I wish I could tell you how I feel, he thought in aggravation. My love for Hawke seems to be able to bear anything, even doubt or fear or anger. We're far from perfect, but what I have with him is something I think I might have been searching for my whole life. I can't and I won't let go of that now.

"I'm sorry," Callum whispered, laughing gruffly even as he looked away, blinked his eyes and took a few hesitant steps backwards, "I shouldn't have. I'm sorry, it's just I...no, never mind. I understand."

Why should everything be so very black and white? Anders thought. You can't have me so you'll just leave, is that it? Anders lunged forwards and pulled a very surprised Callum into a tight hug before the taller man could take another step. Anders could feel his tense body crushed against his but pushed his feelings aside. Don't leave, he thought desperately. You're my friend. Please, I have few enough people I can call even that. I don't want you to go.

It was an apprehensive minute, standing in the freezing cold and dark, waiting for Callum to respond. Anders would gladly admit that when Callum's arms lifted to hold him in return that he felt as if a weight had lifted itself from his shoulders. Callum's face pressed down against his hair and Anders could feel the man's breath, warm against his cold scalp. Surprisingly, Callum was the first to pull back.

"Ha, stop it, really, it doesn't help," he said, his hands on his hips even as he tried to smile, "I won't lie and say that this was what I hoped for but...but thank you Anders. It's, maybe it's enough just to know you don't blame me for this. I can live with that."

He turned to leave once more but Anders was sure that he could feel Callum's resolution, even though the man did not voice it. He strode forwards and grabbed the retreating man's hand, holding it tightly enough to stop him in his tracks. Callum turned back only to find himself staring into a pair of resolute and frustrated eyes. Callum looked down at their joined hands and frowned in confusion.

"What? What do you want to tell me?" he asked, before looking abashed, "sorry, I keep forgetting."

Anders let out a sound of frustration, reaching forwards to clasp his other free hand around he and Callum's already joined hands. He shook them emphatically, raising his eyebrows. When Callum simply looked perplexed Anders reached out and placed one of his hands upon Callum's chest, unsure how to convey what he truly wanted to say. Then he pulled his hand back to himself and repeated the gesture upon his own chest before taking his hand and spreading it in a wide arc to indicate the entire camp. Callum seemed to pick up on something as his mouth quirked at the corner.

"You want me to stay? Is that it?" Callum asked.

To say that Anders' smile was relieved and genuine was an understatement. He kept their hands clasped together and shook them, looking down at the gesture emphatically. Callum followed his gaze and seemed to concentrate.

"Agreed?" Callum guessed.

Anders shook his head and sighed, thinking for a moment before he looked up, his eyes alight. He pointed first to Callum and then to himself, and then finally he shook their hands again. Callum let out a small laugh and shook his head, smiling.

"We should play this game more often," he said, "do you mean...just friends?"

The nod he received in reply seemed to be the catalyst for Callum removing his hand from Anders' hold. The smaller mage looked at the taller man anxiously. Callum sniffed, his hands once more on his hips as he shifted awkwardly on his feet. He looked out into the gloom and smiled a smile which did not truly reach his eyes. When they made eye contact again Anders could see the underlying emotion behind Callum's eyes.

"It's a tempting offer," Callum said as he began to once more retreat, disappearing into the darkness with every step, "how about I say, I'll sleep on it?"

* * *

After searching through the camp a few more times, becoming increasingly worried, he found Hawke in the most logical of places; within the small tent Howe had loaned them for the journey. Anders crawled inside, carefully avoiding the small candle Hawke was burning. At first he was sure that Hawke was asleep, chastising the man in his head for leaving a naked flame burning in the tent if he was going to sleep. Then he noticed, when he turned to lie down upon the heavy blanket, that Hawke's eyes were now fully open and staring at him. Anders looked back, unflinchingly, until Hawke finally looked away.

The moment of silence was intense and uncomfortable. Anders shifted upon the blanket. He wanted to move closer to Hawke but wasn't sure if the man would appreciate it. He wanted to ask Hawke if he was alright. The news of King Alistair's death had shaken Hawke, Anders was well aware and, considering all of the other things the rogue had had to deal with recently, Anders was worried for the man. In the end, all he could do was reach out and run his cold palm down Hawke's face in as comforting a manner he could manage.

"Are we cursed, Anders?" Hawke asked suddenly.

The mage frowned, allowing Hawke to look down at Anders' hand, reaching up to take it in his own and caress his long fingers. Hawke kept his eyes on Anders' fingers as he spoke.

"Every time anything goes right for us, something terrible has to occur as a result," Hawke said calmly, "is it balance? Or is it just a cruel bloody joke?"

I wish I knew, Anders thought as he watched Hawke sadly. My entire life has felt like a game of give and take. Hawke sat up suddenly, letting go of Anders' hand. The candle flickered wildly at his motion. Anders propped himself up on his elbow and watched the rogue carefully.

"I've come to understand things, Anders," Hawke said seriously, finally turning to look at his lover, "that there is very little in this world that I can rely upon. You...you are one of the few things that has stayed, no matter what, well, we've always worked things out, haven't we? But I'm such a fucking idiot I don't know how to handle even _that_ most of the time, the thought of someone wanting me just for who I am, I..."

Hawke let out an irritated chuff of breath and shook his head, looking down at his hands as he smiled self-deprecatingly.

"It seems like I'm always one step away from losing you," Hawke said, his voice monotonous and deep as he started tapping his fingers insistently upon the ground, "to one thing or another."

Anders winced, looking away towards the flickering flame atop the candle. Everything was dreadfully still and silent, as if the night itself were watching them. What would I even say to that if I could? Anders thought in exasperation. Nothing is permanent, nothing is forever. Surely both of us should understand that by now. The mage looked at Hawke as the man stayed as calm and composed on the surface, while underneath Anders could sense the frustration and anger that seemed to broil inside of him. We should be together for as long as that makes us happy and, as far as I can tell, that should be for a long time yet.

"What you told me, that night in the farmhouse," Hawke said suddenly, his tone restrained; Anders frowned, confused, "about the...I mean the taint, about you..."

The truth of it hurt more because of Hawke's hesitation, because of his inability to voice something he obviously couldn't bear the thought of. Anders swallowed his guilt at the memory of that night, of the things he had admitted out of anger and not out of love. He stared into Hawke's eyes and forced himself to nod, hurriedly. At first the rogue did not seem to react, staying still as a statue. Then, after a few imperceptible breaths, Hawke finally pulled in a heavy, deep breath and let it out as a jerky sigh.

"And no one..." he cleared his throat, "no one has ever talked of a cure, of a way to stop all of this? They just leave you to fate, is that it?"

The cruelty of it was unfairly just. I hate that you make it sound as if they are punishing us, Anders thought. Yet, as he could not voice it, he simply shook his head. He could feel the emotion lurking behind his calm eyes, the brewing upset that had begun the moment Howe had told him of the situation in Ferelden. I need a...I need time, he thought unhappily, I need time to rest, to heal. I need to be home and warm, to make sure everyone is alright, that everything is alright...

When that time would come, when _everything_ was alright, Anders did not know. In fact he was beginning to believe it never would. Instead he felt slightly deadened as Hawke closed his eyes and shook his head, all while a small, wavering smile played around his lips. Anders stared at the man as if worried for his sanity.

"Good," Hawke said, opening his eyes and widening his smile, "then it gives me somewhere to start looking."

Anders would admit that his vow of becoming stronger, more independent and self assured, took a back seat as he threw himself forwards onto a rather surprised Hawke. Strong arms lifted instantly to surround him, holding him breath-stealingly tight. I need this, he thought as he forced himself to hold back the brewing tears, too embarrassed to let them fall, I need this more than anything.

"I'm not going to let anyone take you from me," Hawke whispered, leaning in to kiss at the soft skin below Anders' ear, "I swear they'll have to go through me first, I don't care if it's death himself who commands it."

Hawke pulled back suddenly and, holding Anders tight, stared down into the mage's eyes.

"I love you," he said gruffly, his mouth twisting a little uncomfortably, as if he knew that he was being overly emotional and wasn't truly without a sense of his own dignity, "and that...that's what matter most. We'll always be together, you and I."

It can't just be me Hawke, I can't do this on my own, yet I'm so scared that I'll lose you. So many times we have saved each other from the brink and still you seem so indestructible, so unyielding. I couldn't bear it Hawke, oh Maker please don't let anything happen to him. Alistair Theirin's death seemed to loom in the back of his mind like a silent vulture, a herald of doom which waited to prey upon those who did not heed the warning of the dangers of relying on another person so heavily.

Anders did not think that he could ever understand anyone's ability to live purely on their own confidence. Hawke's kiss was searing, filled with the underlying emotion which he seemed to have been too awkward to show through words. As Anders opened his mouth, allowing Hawke to slide his tongue insistently into his mouth, he could feel the heat beginning to course through his system. Hawke blindly fumbled with his right hand, pinching out the candle and hissing slightly as his fingertips dipped into the hot wax. Anders broke the kiss and tried to take Hawke's hurt hand into his, squinting in the darkness, but was simply thrown to the ground for his troubles. Anders let out a soft cry which devolved into nothing but a heady groan as Hawke slid roughly straddled him and began jerking his trousers open. Anders reached down to try and halt Hawke's advances. This feels like an all too familiar pattern, he thought blearily.

That was when Hawke leaned down, crushing their bodies together, and spoke candidly into Anders' ear.

"Please, love, I _need_ this," Hawke said, his voice rough with need, whispery and hot, "I need you. I want you. I need us, together, please."

There was nothing he could think or do which could make a reasonable case for stopping the insistent hands, which returned to their goal of working their way into his clothes as soon as Anders put up no resistance; therefore Anders was left unsure if he was being a fool or not. The hot, wet lips at his throat tried to distract him from those very thoughts and, for the most part, they succeeded. As did the hand that finally breached his defences and began eagerly stroking him into acceptance. Anders groaned sinfully before remembering where he was and biting his lip to stifle any further sounds.

"Fuck I miss your voice," Hawke said, his voice laced with lust and sadness, "do it again, please, let me hear you."

Anders shook his head even though he knew Hawke couldn't see.

"Please, my love," Hawke's voice was rough with lust, deep and heady, brushing against his ear; Anders wasn't sure he would have been able to resist when Hawke suddenly jerked Anders' right leg up, shifting his knee over Hawke's shoulder, and swiftly entered his prone body with a long, insistent finger. In fact he was sure the noise he made was a mix of pain and pleasure. Whichever it was, or both, it seemed to be what Hawke craved from him.

The next thing Anders knew Hawke was all over him and they were fucking. He would not call it making love, it was far too carnal for such a decorous label. Hawke was possessing him, thrusting into him as if he were afraid that Anders would throw him off at any moment. Anders held on to Hawke and closed his eyes against the darkness. Teeth and claws were waiting behind his eyelids, forcing them open. Hawke's animalism, despite Anders finding himself craving the more gentle touches Callum had given him earlier, drove away the thoughts. He focused on the intense pleasure as Hawke took him again and again, gasping as Hawke took hold of him and began to work him towards completion.

They moved together for what felt like an eternity. Anders tasted blood as he bit his lip to stop from screaming. They lay, gasping and dazed, wrapped together until both Hawke and Anders drifted into unconsciousness. Anders wasn't sure if he would have rather stayed awake for as long as possible. For within his sleep the Fade awaited him, both a blessing and a curse.

The sweeping plains and impossible geography of the Fade was a welcome sight, echoing with magic and the forever wind. Yet, even as he looked about him in joy, he knew that the nightmarish creatures and memories would follow him here. The demons would sense him, his weakness and his despair, and they would follow the scent like blood in the water.

* * *

The journey home was surprisingly uneventful, compared to the journey out. It was perhaps made a little longer by their twisted route, heading down the river, keeping pace with the flow, straying into Nevarra. Anders took in the scenery like a blind man finally able to see. Never had he seen something so devastated, not since their trip past the Blasted Hills.

The landscape deteriorated slowly, from green and lush riverside, to slowly increasing scrub, finally to what amounted to a desert. As they moved through, Callum stayed by his side as he had done since the morning after their talk, when Anders had been overjoyed to see both the mage and Sascha packing up to travel with them. Hawke was tolerant of Callum, and yet Anders could see the irritation and envy in the rogue's eyes whenever Anders laughed at a joke or paid Callum attention for any length of time. There seemed to be no healing the rift which had split the two men apart in the first place. Anders simply tried his best to be diplomatic.

"First time to the Silent Plains?" he had asked Anders conversationally; Anders nodded in reply, prompting Callum to talk, "Quite a sight isn't it? Who would have thought that, once upon a time, a great city stood here, surrounded by smaller hamlets, all lush grass and trees as far as the eye could see. The history books write about it as if it were the Promised Land itself, although I'm sure they exaggerate a little. You've heard of this place in books, no doubt?"

Anders shrugged, shaking his hand to indicate he knew a little. Callum grinned and leaned in closer, a sly look upon his face. Anders gripped Bryn's reigns tighter as he led the horse beside him. The sand was fine for the horses but the wagons were finding it hard to ride fast over the uneven terrain. They were forced to take it slowly even though they were still technically fleeing those who were surely pursuing them from Weisshaupt. Not a thing had been heard of pursuers yet, however.

"Someone's not been keeping up with Grey Warden history," he said, making Anders laugh a little nervously, "well, I would have thought you'd know about the very place where the first Archdemon was met in battle by the very first of the Grey Wardens themselves."

The sandy, desert like plain seemed to take on a slightly new perspective after Callum spun the tale of the heroism and honour of the men and women who were, in a way, his forefathers.

"The first Wardens were soldiers of the Imperium, to begin with," Callum said, "all they knew was war, a war they thought never ending. But it was they who finally took a stand. They renounced their oaths to the Tevinter Imperium and raised an army, the first army great enough to stand against Dumat and its armies of Darkspawn. They met here, upon the plains, where Dumat fell and a third of all the armies of northern Thedas fell with it. It's a rather sad place, really. So many dead, and all to stop something which seems to keep coming back."

Don't make it sound so futile, Anders thought. He may not have been a Grey Warden any longer, but it was difficult to disassociate himself from the feelings he had gained by living through the Blight and then facing Darkspawn himself at Commander Cousland's side. That one day the Blight would never return, one day they would find out how to stop all of the mindless death and destruction. One day there would be no need for Grey Wardens, for the horror of devoting your life to sacrifice for the fate of others, to something which gave nothing in return for your own life, for the screaming horrors of your nightmares and the undeniable horror of your inevitable madness, or worse...

"Hey, are you feeling alright?" Callum asked, placing his hand upon Anders' shoulder as he looked at him with concern.

Anders had just nodded in reply, trying to smile reassuringly, when Hawke seemed to appear from nowhere leading a white horse behind him.

"Anders, I need to talk to you," Hawke said commandingly.

It was pointless to argue, especially with no way to simply show his disbelief for what Hawke was implying. It had happened too many times over the past few weeks as they had travelled home. He and Callum would talk, they would joke and laugh, and at some point Hawke would decide enough was enough. He would stride over and think of something or other which would require Anders to come with him, just so he was no longer with the tall mage. Of course this time was no different, as Hawke led him off and began very obviously talking about whatever came into his head at the spur of the moment. To say it was exasperating was an understatement, but Anders was unsure how to deal with it. He looked over his shoulder at Callum as he and Hawke walked away, smiling at the taller man. Callum smiled back and shrugged, as if to say that he understood.

Anders wished that Hawke could be as understanding. The rogue was a terrible one for speeches and promises, which, once he had made them, tended to fall by the wayside as soon as Hawke's human nature came back into play; which normally didn't take very long. Hawke's seeming tolerance of Callum, which had blossomed at Weisshaupt, had quickly devolved into the same petty envy.

Anders' inability to talk did not only seem to be frustrating him either, Hawke was also becoming increasingly frustrated with the mage's inability to communicate. Even though he tried to hide it, Anders could tell. With the stress from his jealousy, his irritation and the constant, hard, fast paced journeying, Hawke began to fester. Anders could see it happening but was mainly powerless to stop it. He could see Hawke holding his emotions inside, letting them build and build in the empty reservoirs he kept within his mind, holding every unhappy memory or slight or insult inside until it would inevitably burst.

Unfortunately this led Anders to making foolish decisions, which he knew were harmful and yet he was at a loss as to how to solve it any other way. When Hawke kissed him, always in full view of Callum, Anders let him. When Hawke demanded sex, Anders let him. He tried his best to show Hawke how much he loved him, with touches, with looks, but Anders could tell that Hawke needed to return home almost worse than Anders did himself. Yet the thought of returning to Kirkwall curing their fractured relationship seemed to dwindle as the days passed. Anders simply hoped that it could still hold some truth.

Nevarra passed them by swiftly and yet the new and exciting land was still intriguing. The Silent plains were undulating and warm, but whenever they made camp and dug a latrine, there was always some sort of odd thing to find, whether it was a strangely coloured rock or, once, even a broken sword. They met few people while they were on the move, some nomads passed by in large caravans, but no one stopped to talk to them or interrupted their journey. The outlines of both large and small settlements could be picked out upon the plains, unruly stone and gleaming slate imported from Tevinter. The Wardens stopped in camps from which they could ride to these settlements for food and supplies, but Anders was never allowed to accompany them, despite his want to.

"Don't be a bloody idiot," Nathaniel would say with a shake of his head, "I'm not risking you being recognised."

Travelling with the Wardens made everything a little easier for Anders, that he could admit. The sense of camaraderie, just being within their well ordered group, was pleasant and comfortable. Anders quickly fell into routines, inveigling himself into their tasks, collecting firewood, starting the fires up and keeping them going with better spells, laying wards, helping cook, anything that needed done he was there doing it. It kept him busy, kept his mind off of darker things. Callum also seemed to fall in well with the other Wardens, his easy smile and charming nature swaying many of the women to his side with ease. Nathaniel even commented, at one point when they had left the Silent Plains behind them and were camped just North of Hasmal, that the tall idiot reminded him somewhat of Cousland.

"He makes the girl's go just as doey-eyed," Howe said with a roll of his own eyes, "and even some of my men, it seems. Be a friend Anders, tell your boy to keep it in his pants. I don't want to have to deal with the fallout from any of that drama."

Anders just laughed.

Nathaniel remained somewhat distant while they travelled but was still a constant presence. Anders was impressed by Howe's ability to command, something he hadn't really seen firsthand. Nathaniel had always been a follower, as far as Anders had seen while they ventured together. Cousland was Anders' prototype of a leader; assertive, charismatic, likeable and yet respected. Until he saw Howe commanding his own troops, he would never have considered him. He was different from Cousland, more reserved, gruff but commanding respect. His troops admired him, that much was clear. We're a long way from the rainy day we found you lurking in the basement plotting to kill the Commander, eh Nathaniel? Anders had thought with a wry smile. Howe had asked him just what he thought he was smirking about, and Anders simply laughed and shrugged in return.

When Kirkwall finally appeared, after they had travelled down through the Wildervale and over the pass in the Vimmark Mountains, Anders felt a mixture of relief and sadness. They were home, but reaching Kirkwall only opened up the way for having to deal with a tonne of new problems; Nathaniel and the others would be leaving, Anders would have to convince Callum to stay in Kirkwall all while trying to keep Hawke happy, and then there was their friends who would _all_ want to know everything that had happened and the _mages_ , he would need to speak to the resistance straight away and learn of everything which had happened in his absence and...

Suddenly the fast paced, stressful journey from Weisshaupt to Kirkwall, with death breathing down their necks, seemed like a saunter in the woods.

It's good to be back, Anders thought dryly.


	3. Kirkwall

Time seemed to stop as he hit the bed. The cold world moved on around him but the warmth was pervasive, lulling him into lethargy. Anders closed his eyes and regretted it instantly. The demons he had been searching for were now the demons that haunted him, stalking him in his mind. He brought his hands up to cover his eyes and took a deep breath.

Now that he was home, now that he had returned empty handed, how could he stop the rising darkness? It had taken Justice, it had taken his goal from him, it had taken his voice, and now he was left here, within the stagnancy of Kirkwall's boundaries, wondering what it had all been for.

The constant searching, the call that had beckoned him to Nordbotten, the confrontation, the lies, the death, and the flight back to Kirkwall; his journey had left him no time to think, no time to dwell, and no motivation to do so. Yet here, sitting upon the dusty bed in Hawke's mansion which he had left two and a half months ago on that snowy winter morning, there was no longer a wall between him and his own black thoughts.

She's dead, he thought hollowly. My mother is dead. He would never have admitted it to himself, he would never have believed himself so naive, but finding her there had been something he he'd begun to believe possible as they had journeyed north. Her face in his dreams, her voice...to have it all snatched away, so cruelly. Fate seemed to have a bitter and disappointing way of repeating itself.

Alesis. Even the thought of the name made him screw his eyes and furrow his brow in anger. The vile mage's swift death was too good for him; he deserved to suffer as he had made others suffer. I wish I had been able to see his corpse, Anders thought as he left his hands fall away and lay back against the cold blankets, I wish I'd been able to witness his death-pale face, his open eyes staring as they had surely done when he'd seen his death rush towards him. The irony of Alesis' death was not lost on Anders, but, in a twisted and dark part of his mind, he still wished he had been the one to pull the life from the wretched man's body and watch him die a slow, painful death.

Yet his thoughts, somehow justified as they were, seemed a testament to the creature he had become. Since Justice had been taken, since he had been left _himself_ once more, there was no longer an excuse for his bitter hatred, resentment or anger. He was the source now, the corrupted human soul; Justice was no longer here to be the scapegoat for his feelings. This is who you are, it seemed to taunt, in a way it's who you always were.

I'm sorry mother, he thought hollowly. It seemed nothing more than an empty thought, useless and far, far too late. The flames licked at his conscience and he shrank away from the thoughts.

I'm sorry Justice, for not being what you needed, for...

No.

Anders frowned deeply and took in a deep breath. The sudden barrage of self pity only seemed to counteract itself with a bout of anger towards his own mood.

Not this.

Look at yourself, is this what you want? To curl up and bemoan your fate? What are you apologising for, he thought in irritation, hoping to be forgiven? The dead offer no solace. Anders opened his eyes and stared into the waning sunlight filtering through the cracks in the curtains. If you want forgiveness, ask it of yourself. Perhaps then, he thought, there can be some semblance of peace within me. What has happened...it is not to be forgotten, it is to be remembered. What doesn't kill you, he thought with bleak encouragement, only makes you stronger.

It seemed, somehow, too simplistic, too self serving; and yet over the coming months Anders would slowly come to realise that it was difficult to save the people you loved without first accepting that you liked yourself enough to exist.

* * *

Their return to Kirkwall had been entirely understated. Anders did not truly realise just how different Hawke must have looked to the guardsmen that stopped them at the city gates. Nathaniel was the one to do the talking but neither of the guards even did a double take when looking at the heavily bearded, dirty, ragged man sitting atop the white horse that was their Champion. Hawke didn't mention anything about it but Anders could only wonder if it rankled the man's already bad humour.

Kirkwall seemed as it always had. At this time of year the snows were beginning to melt on the ground and the sound of songbirds was fresh in the air. The scent of upcoming spring was faint on the breeze and it was noticeably warmer than it had been in the frozen north. Anders felt the fresh wind on his face, as they travelled through city in the late evening, and breathed deeply. There was a sense of relief in his mood, despite his worries. Everything around him was so very familiar, from the packed up merchant's stalls in Lowtown, to the stunted and hardy plants in the winter gardens in Hightown. The few people still out on the streets stared as they all passed, a seemingly ragtag group of wanderers, yet Anders knew that the rampant griffon emblazoned upon Howe's still shining armour must have given away his status fairly easily. The sight of a Grey Warden was obviously still an awe inspiring sight, even out with a Blight.

Anders followed Hawke's horse without thinking. They clopped over stone and up stairs, solemn despite their journey almost being at an end. Despite Hawke's changeable mood, he had at least been hospitable enough to offer bed and board to the troop of Wardens who had, essentially, saved their lives. Anders was happy to see that he was not completely far gone. He would have tried to find a way to ask the rogue for Callum to be put up as well, if hadn't known that the tall mage would find it just as uncomfortable as Hawke would. Instead, Anders knew that Varric would surely get the mage a room until he could find something a little better. Perhaps even something a little more permanent...

Anders may have been happy to be back, but he was not quite as happy as Oranna was when they all trailed into the mansion, dirty and rank and dragging filthy equipment across the pristine carpets. She had gone pale at first, dropping the heavy pewter dish she had been carrying, but, as Hawke walked forwards to help her, she simply threw her arms around his neck and started to cry. Bodahn and Sandal had rushed out to see what the clamour was all about, Bodahn breaking into a shocked smile and stuttering out welcomes while Sandal clapped his hands excitedly.

"W-why Serrah Hawke! What a surprise, you should have...only we're not...oh my what a shock this is," Bodahn said as he walked forwards and picked up the pewter dish.

Nathaniel had stared in bemusement at the overly emotional scene but Anders had just shrugged. Oranna had lost so much so young, he thought as she ran to him next and gave him the same treatment. It made sense that she would fear to lose any more. As he returned her hug, he had known exactly how she felt.

Yet, despite the reunion of friends, the absence of a joyful atmosphere had been obvious and grim. The Wardens were pleasant but peremptory, Hawke was cheerful and charming but the actions were forced and his smile strained, Anders knew that his silence was unnerving but, in a way, was glad that it saved him from being forced to talk. Anders had found Callum sitting on the low couch by the unlit fire with Sascha at his feet. The tall mage looked out of place and, incongruously, as if he were trying to seem unimposing, simply part of the furniture. He walked through the ever shifting Wardens and, without further delay, plopped himself down beside a surprised Callum and, promptly, fell asleep. He had intended to prompt the other man to talk but, unsurprisingly, they had fallen into a lapsed silence and Anders hadn't truly banked upon how tired he was. The leather of Callum's jacket was hard but warm and Anders was too tired to care what he was doing.

For once he did not truly remember his dreams.

When he awoke it was only to realise that someone had carried him upstairs and put him to bed. The early afternoon sun in his eyes, the cawing of magpies in the garden, the slightly dusty smell to the sheets and blankets; the familiar surrounding was disorientating at first but, as he sat up slowly, grimacing at the stiffness and pain in his muscles and joints, it was somewhat comforting.

The thought of being home was simultaneously joyful and depressing; the thought that he had come full circle and not achieved anything he set out to do angered him. _But Justice_...he told himself, _but Alesis_...he tried to argue; he would not listen to his own advice. He had worked his way out of bed, vaguely listening to the muffled sounds of movement and voices from downstairs, and dressed himself, determined to get up and get back into his life as quickly as possible.

Which was when he had sat down on the bed while his mind warred with itself and had given himself a bloody good talking to. After which, to his delight, Madam trotted into the bedroom with a plaintive and rather chiding meow and a rather grumpy countenance. Anders had scooped her up, laughing a little emotionally as she simultaneously nuzzled his head and tried to escape his tight hold. He didn't think he'd ever been happier to see the furry creature than he was at that point. He had quickly sneaked downstairs and found Madam a saucer of milk, scooped from the top of the vat where the cream lay thick. Suffice to say that Madam did not stay mad at him for long.

* * *

Despite their, essentially, sneaking back into the city under the cover of being fairly unrecognisable, it only took someone to notice the light and noise coming from the Hawke family mansion and word spread fast. This meant one of two things; the next afternoon Hawke was besieged by attendants to the Knight Commander demanding his presence and, as a second, the nobles began pouring to Hawke's door, pleasing smiles upon their faces and gifts in their hands. It was sickening as much as it was unwanted.

Everything was instantly once more as it has always been. If our journey hadn't been so horrific, Anders thought wryly, I would feel as if we'd never left.

The first thing he had done was try and find Nathaniel, which turned out to be pointless as he was told by Griva, a short, blonde Warden with hard brown eyes, that their Captain had already left to scout around the docks and find a way to get word to Ferelden. His 'talk' with Griva was an exercise in both humour and dark thoughts; the only way he could think to describe Nathaniel had been to mime cutting his hair, to which Griva had instantly known who he was talking about, to which they had both shared some reserved laughter and knowing smiles. Nathaniel Howe had obvious still not lived down the rather hilarious incident which forced him to cut off his long locks. It had put Anders in a good mood, even as he had set off through the mansion to look for Callum, but at the same time had only served to remind him of something troubling. Why is it that everyone I try and communicate with understands me and is patient with me _except_ Hawke? he thought. He found Callum asleep in one of the back rooms, snoring softly into the pillows. Sascha, curled up at the foot of the bed, lifted her head eagerly and thumped her tail against the ground when he entered. Anders lifted his finger to his lips but the dog simply stood up and walked over to him. Silly dog, Anders thought, but reached out and stroked her head amiably. I would let you out, but goodness knows what Madam would think. He closed the door softly and Sascha went back to her post.

Anders had retreated to the study, unwilling to come face to face with anyone, especially the Knight Commander's templar emissaries. He took the time, instead, to try and organise his meagre belongings. From the vast amount of equipment, weapons, horses and food they had taken with them, all Anders had to show for it was Bryn and the contents of the small pouch which he kept sewn into the waistband of his trousers; thankfully the Wardens of Weisshaupt hadn't found _that_. Anders sat in the study and stared at the mahogany desk as he emptied the bits and pieces onto the desktop, half heartedly listening to the voices drifting up from downstairs.

A bundle of crumpled, water damaged letters and a soft bag in which he found, to his surprise, his birthday present. He opened the compass delicately and stared at the suspended metal rod, quivering as Anders turned the ornate half orb, staying completely still as he did so. It seemed, even in its sentimental value, to mock him. Is this all you are left with, it said, is this all that you ever meant to him. Just someone to lavish gifts upon, someone to make his through money and charm. Anders frowned and closed the compass with a click, placing it back onto the desk. The memories of their short journey through the Planasene forest were some of the happiest of his life; the last thing he wanted was to have them corrupted by his own malignancy.

The letters were a good distraction, even if they came with their own disappointment. Anders unfurled them one by one, careful not to rip them along the creases or through the curled patches of damp stains. Laying them out before him he was reminded of the tense night in Perendale, the warm pressure of Sascha against his legs, Hawke's soft breathing behind him, the flickering firelight. The last letter which he pulled open with care turned out to be the very letter to no one which he had written that dark night. He folded it quickly closed and tossed it to the edge of the desk. The others were his focus, no matter their cryptic content.

What do they mean? Anders thought. Do they _mean_ anything at all, or were they simply a ruse to bait him to the Anderfels, just as all Alesis's other ploys were. The blood mage had sought the power Anders himself had wielded through symbiosis with Justice, and instead he had found only death. Now Anders could only stare at the ancient pieces of crumpled parchment and wonder as to what the illusive Band of Three had discovered within the bowels of Kirkwall, or if they had ever even existed in the first place. The papers stared back at him as mutely as he stared at them; it did not take long for Anders to put them away in frustration, storing them within the trusty pages of his Tevinter tome.

Focus, he had told himself as he leant his elbows on the desk and placed his head in his hands, _focus_. There will be answers somewhere, nothing is lost forever. Of course the story within the letters was as intriguing as it had been when the letters first started appearing, but now it seemed to take on a wholly new impetus; whatever I hoped to gain, Anders thought, whatever power I hoped to wield, enough to save the mages of Kirkwall, to set us all free, it cannot be given. I will find it and I will use it. The words spoke of dark magic, of alters to blood sacrifice, of glyphs within the streets themselves. There is no more Justice to protect me, Anders thought as he brought his head up and settled his chin upon his hands, no more barrier between the darkness and _you_.

Then I'll just have to be extra careful.

* * *

"The least you could have done was take a bath Hawke."

Anders hadn't truly realised just how much he had missed Varric until the grinning dwarf was before him, looking oddly resplendent in an open red shirt and dark brown duster jacket, grinning from ear to ear. They had sojourned to the Hanged Man partly to meet with their friend but mainly to escape whatever was happening at their home. Nathaniel and the other Wardens were currently holed up there while they tried to get word to Cousland and request further orders. Anders would have spent more time with them if the atmosphere of their group hadn't been so very tense and, in Nathaniel's case, passive aggressive. Instead Hawke had suggested that they escape to the relative safety of Varric's suite before the well informed dwarf came to visit them instead. Anders had instantly grabbed Callum, who had been lounging in the sitting room pretending to read a book, and dragged him along too.

"I've missed you too Varric," Hawke said back with a quirked eyebrow, "now hows about less insults and more ale, eh?"

Anders had insisted on bringing the still rather homeless Callum with them, hoping that Varric would be charitable enough to find the tall mage a room while he was staying in Kirkwall, to which Hawke had not been entirely amused. When he asked Anders, as tactfully as he could, why Callum was coming with them, Anders simply stared meaningfully at him. Hawke had no argument for that; in fact Anders had found the rogue had little to say when Anders couldn't start an argument. That had found them sitting in the Hanged Man, before the roaring fire, relaxing despite the tension as they all enjoyed a drink at Varric's ever magnanimous expense.

"And to think I didn't even know you were here until you show up at my door," Varric said with a shake of his head as he had handed Hawke a large flagon of Ale, "My sources are obviously not working hard enough, either that or I must be getting rusty."

Anders joined Callum in his choice of poison, mainly because he was actively fighting against feeling distracted, awkward and uncomfortable. It was only after his third brandy that Anders remembered Justice was no longer there to regulate his alcohol intake, and that he hadn't eaten since breakfast. By the end of Hawke's storytelling, of which Varric had insisted of course, Anders found himself rather drunk.

"Only you two could go away on a holiday, both end up dead, and somehow finish up back at my table to tell the tale," Varric said with an incredulous smile, taking a long drink of ale.

"Ah, I wasn't really that dead," Hawke said cheerily, even as he rubbed uncomfortably at his neck, his beard hiding the thick scar there, "he was the one that tried it for a week."

Anders glared blearily at Hawke and shoved him in the shoulder, leaving the other man to laugh at his expense. There was something about the atmosphere of the Hanged Man that could turn any dire tale into a comedy. Suddenly, everything seemed slightly funny, even the tale of his own abstruse resurrection. Or maybe it's just the alcohol, Anders thought with a soft giggle, shaking his head as Callum eyed him curiously through heavy lidded eyes.

It hadn't taken Varric very long to realise that there was something very wrong with Anders, which the mage wasn't surprised by considering anyone with ears could have figured it out sooner or later. In his usual fashion Varric had tried to make light of the situation, after giving Anders a curious and yet sympathetic smile, and started the trend between the three men of bringing as many sore throat related puns into the conversation as possible. Anders had begun to feel at a distinct disadvantage, being unable to retort, finally having Varric take pity on him and find some spare leafs of paper, an inkwell and a quill for him to write with. Despite feeling overjoyed that he finally had something to communicate with, chiding himself mentally for not thinking of this very thing when they had been in Hawke's mansion, his writing was less than marvellous considering his intoxication.

"You have terrible handwriting," was the first things Hawke said when he read the scribbles on the first sheet, making Anders swat at his leg; the rogue smiled softly as he read.

As for Callum, Varric had already agreed happily to get the mage a room until he could find something better, to which Anders had written a speedy thank you onto his sheet which was quickly filling with short, blunt, badly scrawled sentences. Varric had laughed even as Anders frowned.

"Sorry, Blondie," Varric had said, "I just can't help it. You look like a bureaucrat taking notes, scrawling away all the time like that."

Anders hit him over the head with his rolled up paper, while Hawke ran his hand down Anders' back gently, the warmth resting at the base of his spine. The shiver that had raced up his back was both pleasant and unpleasant. For a brief second, fleeting as it was, he felt as if he hadn't ever left Kirkwall, that somehow none of the awful events they had experienced had ever even happened. Unfortunately Varric opened his mouth and ruined all that with one question.

"So the story I heard from Guerlain, about the attack on Montfort," Varric said as Anders finally stopped laughing, the dwarf's eyes turning a little more serious, "that was you?"

Not just me, Anders thought, but he nodded nonetheless. The memory of that blood filled night seemed so far away now, blurred by the multitude of events which had occurred after it. Sitting around Varric's large table, Anders felt safe at least, safe enough to talk about such sordid things from which he would rather hide. I have to explain then, he thought in irritation, his moods swinging rapidly from one thing to another. He lifted his hand and, a little unstably, scribbled something onto his paper.

' _Justice isn't here anymore_ '

That had sent Varric's eyebrows into his hairline. The dwarf looked at Anders and Anders looked straight back. Finally the mage shrugged and scratched at his neck awkwardly, glad for the tingling feeling of Hawke's hand running gently through his, admittedly dirty, hair. Anders gave the rogue a small smile and allowed Hawke to fill Varric in on everything that had transpired, well, everything Hawke knew of anyway. Their talk continued while Anders stared at the flames in the fire and marvelled at the warmth in his body brought on by the brandy. Eventually the topic fell to the situation in Ferelden and, despite Anders' fifth brandy, which he had insisted upon despite Hawke's concern, the mood became sombre.

"I hear that the nobles and the Teryns called for a Landsmeet," Varric said, "to decide on how the state should be governed now that the royal bloodline has been broken. Apparently some are calling for individual territories, like it was before the Union, but I say that's asking for trouble. There's already enough dissent in Ferelden as it is without turning it back into a feudal country, warlords fighting over land and taking prisoners at will. Ferelden needs a monarchy to keep it stable, only now there's no one of royal blood to take the throne."

"What about the relatives of the King?" Hawke asked, "Distant ones, anything at all?"

"All dead, as far as I know of," Varric shrugged, "King Alistair had a sister, I think, but she was only a half sister. A peasant, not someone you would consider queen material anyway. As for his supporters...they're either dead or imprisoned now."

All except one, Anders thought as he stared at the knotted wood of the table before him, running his fingers over the coarse grain. Lien Cousland was, as a Grey Warden, outside of their petty laws and squabbles. None of the rebellious Teryns would dare to challenge the far reaching influence of the Wardens or desecrate their ancient order by killing or imprisoning a Warden Commander. They would surely know better. However, in knowing better, they would only doom themselves further. Cousland wasn't the sort of man to hold a grudge, but in regards to those he held dear, Anders was sure he could make an exception; and no one had been dearer to the Commander than Alistair had. Anders had once surmised that a man foolish enough to touch the King would be lucky to keep his hands; now, with the King dead, the conspirators would be lucky to keep their heads.

Maker I don't want to hear any more of this, Anders thought morosely. I thought this was supposed to be a simple night where I wouldn't have to think or talk or do anything, he thought a little resentfully as he stared at the back of Hawke's head, blinking his eyes sleepily. He turned at a tap on his shoulder and smiled wearily at Callum who was holding what looked like a well used pack of cards in his hand.

"Fancy a game?" the man asked quietly, jerking his thumb over his shoulder, "I found them over there."

Anders nodded instinctually before recognising the familiar deck. It was the one Varric always used when he was expecting someone round for a good game of Diamondback or Wicked Grace. Anders frowned at them, wondering why Varric had them out at all. It was only after Callum had dealt them both a hand that a familiar pair of voices became discernible over the vague hubbub of the pub downstairs.

"I'm telling you it was a dragon's egg," she was saying importunately, "do you think I would scam just anyone? And it was well worth the box I traded it for."

"Of course it was," the other replied, his voice wearily sarcastic, "and I'm sure that this time the box will contain more than just an old sock and some torn pages from some dirty romance novel."

"That was an innocent mistake..!" she replied, stopping suddenly as they both rounded the corner and found themselves the focus of four pairs of eyes, three of which they had obviously not expected.

Anders couldn't believe his eyes. Yet, despite not having seen Isabella in what felt like an age and, to be truthful, not ever expecting to see the pirate again, it was Fenris who spoke first.

"Hawke!" the elf exclaimed, more emotion in that one word than the elf normally expressed in a week; Anders watched, unable to stop himself from feeling an irrational spike of jealousy, as Hawke stood to receive the embrace which Fenris wrapped him in. Even averting his eyes did not help as Callum, who had also observed the overt display, was giving him a very significant look before returning his gaze to Fenris and Hawke. Oh shut up, Anders thought, his head swimming as he downed the rest of his brandy.

"Hello handsome," Isabella said next but, despite her brazen words, her tone was more than a little wary; Hawke shook his head and smiled, seeming genuinely happy to see her, and stepped forwards to pull the surprised woman into a tight hug. Isabella just laughed but Anders could hear the relief in her voice, "is that a dagger in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?"

"It is a dagger, Isabella," Hawke said with a smirk as he pulled back, "and I am glad to see you too. Really."

He was so distracted by Isabella's sudden appearance that Anders almost did not notice Fenris taking the seat beside him. Anders was too far gone to even realise it was where Hawke had been sitting moments before.

"It is good to see you well, Anders," Fenris said with a small smile.

Anders couldn't help but return it, despite his previous petty bitterness, as his wayward thoughts were once more spurred on by the very cordial effects of the brandy. Being away for such a protracted period of time had allowed him to see the difference in everyone far more clearly. Varric looked more dapper than normal, alluding to perhaps a large inflow of cold coins in the near past, Isabella had clearly returned through way of apology or simply because of Hawke, and Fenris looked far better than Anders had seen him in a long time. The elf was a little plumper in the face, far from the gaunt and shadowed look he'd had before they left, his hair seemed thicker and less lank and his large, green eyes seemed somewhat brighter. Despite his drunkenness bringing up old feelings, he could easily say that he was happy for whatever had brought the elf to such a state.

' _And you_ ' Anders automatically wrote onto his sheet, pushing it unsteadily to Fenris who only frowned down at the mage's seemingly odd means of reply. It was only as Fenris stared at it a little longer than would be normal at the words that Anders remembered, blearily, that the elf could barely read at all. Oh wonderful, Anders thought.

"Uh, yes," Fenris said slowly, waiting for an explanation; when nothing was forthcoming he asked, "what in Thedas is wrong with your voice?"

' _Gone_ ' Anders wrote, keeping his communication succinct, before adding, ' _long story_ '

Fenris's frown did not lessen but he nodded anyway, obviously not truly understanding the seriousness of Anders' condition. The mage could not blame him. Anders noticed Fenris looking past him towards Callum, who was looking a little uncomfortable and out of place in amongst the group he obviously was not a part of. Anders tried to kick his brain into gear and quickly signalled for Fenris and Callum to introduce themselves, passing his hand back and forth between the two. Fenris rolled his eyes but acquiesced.

"Pleased to meet you," Fenris said to Callum with the usual reserve which he set aside for strangers, "I am Fenris."

"Callum," the tall mage replied with anod, trying as surreptitiously as he could to scan his eyes over Fenris's impressive tattoos, "it's a pleasure."

Perhaps not the best idea to introduce my new mage friend to Fenris first, Anders thought as he scratched his nose and tried to focus on the table in front of him. Although the two men seemed to be eyeing each other with curiosity more than hostility, but Anders didn't entirely trust Fenris to treat an unknown mage with any sense of civility straight off the bat. The elf obviously did not know it yet, but Callum was sure to let it slip at some point, trusting idiot that he was. Anders turned in his seat and waved over to Isabella who seemed to have just finished talking to Hawke. In his drunken state he did not entirely notice the meaningfulness of her and Hawke's discussion. However, the pirate seemed more than happy to extricate herself from her awkward explanation and walked over to Anders with a smile and a sway of her hips.

"Been a while," she said as if it had only been a week or so, and that the last time he had seen her hadn't been before she had essentially run off with the only thing that could have stopped the Qunari attack on Kirkwall; thankfully Anders was too far gone to care at that point and could only find it in himself to be happy with Isabella for making _Hawke_ happy with her return. He gave her a drunken wave and smiled, "What's wrong?" Isabella asked, "no scolding words?"

"He's lost his voice," Fenris supplied as he sipped from a glass that was filled with what looked like a heady red wine.

"Oh, is that so," Isabella said with a sly smile, "sucking too much cock can do that to a man."

Fenris choked so badly on his drink that he spilled most of it down his leg, while Callum merely laughed. Anders shrugged his shoulders and giggled embarrassedly even as his head swam. Fenris chastened Isabella but the rogue looked unrepentant. Anders tried to join in but he was struggling to focus. He closed his eyes and shook his head; suddenly, as if some malignant switch had been flipped in his head, unpleasant memories flashed unbidden into his drink addled mind.

_The scent of pine needles, soft beneath his knees, hands fisted into his hair, Hawke's terrible baleful stare, unable to breathe..._

"Are you alright?" Fenris asked in an unusually soft voice while, behind them, Isabella and Callum were introducing themselves.

Anders nodded, even though it was a lie. The room seemed to spin around him and Anders placed his hands flat against the wood of the table just to stay steady. Sleep, he thought, I want to go to sleep. I need to go home. He tried to stand but, as soon as he was free of the chair, it was quite clear to him that he was not fully in control of his legs. Isabella was the one to steady him as he stepped around the chair and tripped over his own feet.

_The templar held up before him, the man's terrible shrieks as Justice tore through his armour as if it were nothing but paper, the blood and the noise and the..._

"Careful there," Isabella said, trying to sound light hearted, "I think someone's had one too many."

"Anders, are you alright?" Hawke appeared before him and seemed overly close in his skewed sense of vision when Anders managed to steady himself, causing the mage to stumble backwards; the memories continued to come.

_The blood flowing from Hawke's neck, coating his hands, the pain overwhelming him..._

"He's gone pale," Varric sounded concerned.

"Anders, sit down, here," Callum's voice and the sound of a chair being scraped back over the stone floor.

_Falling to the ground, the stench of the dead bodies beneath him, Alesis's manic grin, Justice's amber eyes, the dagger sliding into his chest..._

Anders grabbed onto the back of the chair he had been sitting in and closed his eyes, feeling the room turning around him in spirals. He knew it was Hawke's hands that slid gently over his shoulders, the recognisable touch and accompanied by the familiar heady smell.

"Come on, I'll get you home," he said, his hands seeming to ground him in the midst of his own sudden, spinning, chaotic world. Anders had nodded, which was instantly taken as a bad idea when he was forced to slap his hand over his mouth in an effort not to throw up.

Well, this is dignified, he had thought as he found himself outside in the cold air, Hawke holding him steady as Anders wretched up the meagre contents of his stomach against the dark alleyway wall.

"I told you, you shouldn't have had that last brandy," Hawke said in a slightly conciliatory and yet chiding tone; Anders was glad, in that weary, horrid moment, that he didn't have the ability to speak or he was quite sure the argument he would have started would have ended in violence.

As it was he simply spat out the vile taste in his mouth and allowed Hawke to loop one of the mage's arms over his broad shoulders and walk him slowly home. It was an unpleasant and nauseating trip. In truth, even seeing his familiar four poster bed after weeks of travelling and exhaustion was nothing compared to how glad he was to see it that night. Or at least he thought so, until sleep claimed him.

The Fade seemed distorted and bizarre, indistinct and dark, vengeful and looming, and he ran and ran until he thought he was safe. Then everything would twist around him and he would turn to find something behind him, something awful and terrible, something dead and rotting.

"What are you so afraid of?" Hawke's grinning corpse would ask him, his throat split open and gushing, his voice distorted with a hideous gurgling.

Anders' voice made no noise as he opened his mouth and tried to scream. It was a true nightmare, something he was not yet entirely used to despite the dreams which had haunted him during their journey. This was different, these were his own demons which plagued him now, his own fears. All he could do was recoil from the ghostly blue flames that roared up before him, the hideous sound of shrieking from within the burning house as his mother was devoured alive by the flames. All he could do was fall backwards, feeling the softness beneath his hands, looking down only to find himself laying atop a sea of dead bodies all clothed in black, their lifeless eyes staring up at him.

He tried to scream, he remembered that much. He remembered little else, fragments of nightmare and reality. Waking up the next morning turned out to be the worst part, even if it had rescued him from the terrible realm of sleep. The pain was agonising, splitting his skull in two. He blinked into the bright daylight and groaned, trying his best to shield his eyes. Even rolling onto his side in an effort to escape the sunlight was enough to make his body twist with nausea.

Fuck, Anders thought weakly. Fuck, fuck, fuck, what fucking stupid thing have I done now? He managed to feebly pull the heavy blanket up over his face and breathed steadily through his nose, grateful at least for even that small relief. His head pounded, faster even than his own slow heartbeat, his temples throbbing and the ache seeming to extend down his spine and across his shoulders. The roiling feeling in his stomach only made things a thousand times worse. He felt as if the room was still spinning as his stomach flipped over and over and over, steadying itself only to begin rolling again a few minutes later.

He couldn't tell how long it had been, minutes or hours, until the soft sound of the door opening alerted him to someone's presence. The fact that he could even hear the footsteps which treaded across the thick rug was testament to the sensitivity of his condition and his hearing, considering he normally never heard Hawke move at all.

"Anders, are you awake?" Hawke was talking normally but to Anders ears he may as well have been shouting at the top of his voice.

All he managed, once the footsteps stopped at the side of the bed, was to slip his hand out from beneath the covers and waggle his fingers tentatively. There was a brief, quiet laugh, followed by the bed dipping as Hawke sat down. Dry lips touched against his knuckles before the heavy bedclothes were peeled back. Hawke's face was slowly revealed to Anders' squinted eyes.

"Well," Hawke said, reaching forwards to brush the hair out of Anders' eyes; the mage closed his eyes and kept them closed, swallowing down his nausea, "I would say that I told you so but I'm worried you might send me flying through the nearest window."

Anders would have agreed if he had the volition to move. Instead he let out a grunt of agreement and breathed deeply. The hand returned to his face, stroking gently against his cheek.

"I'll get you some tea," Hawke said as he stood, "and then I'll have Bodahn draw you a bath. It'll make you feel better."

Anders was sure that, somewhere beneath his mounting headache and want to throw up, sat a reason that he was angry at Hawke. He couldn't quite remember what it was, or from where it could have stemmed, but he was sure there must have been a reason for his rather bizarre turn the night before. Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on how you wanted to look at it, nothing came to mind.

The tea helped settle his stomach, made with fresh mint from the garden, and the bath relaxed his neck and shoulders, soaking in the water to stem his dehydration. After he felt marginally better, having finally rubbed the dirt and sweat from his body and hair, he felt normal enough to send a few quick healing spells through his system to counteract the faint nausea in his stomach and the ache in his spine.

Once he had dried and dressed himself he made his way, aimlessly, to the sitting room. He had hoped to find it empty, find a space to gather his thoughts, but instead he found Hawke upon the long couch before the roaring fireplace. The rogue looked up from the book in his lap but Anders did not stop to see his niceties or his concern. Instead he wandered into the room and promptly sat down onto the other end of the couch before shuffling to the side and laying down, moving to settle his head in Hawke's lap. The other man lifted the book out of Anders way and, after a short pause, a hand appeared in his hair, teasing the still drying strands through his fingers.

"So," Hawke said conversationally, "feeling better"?

Anders lifted one hand and wobbled it slightly before dropping it back to his chest. Hawke laughed softly and reached over to take one of the mage's hands in his own, rubbing his thumb over the beck of Anders' hand.

"I'll have to remember to keep the whiskey bottle away from you in future," Hawke joked, to which Anders cleared his throat in response.

The light behind his eyelids shone red, he could see the veins through the thin flesh as the sunshine flittered over his face from behind the ivy. Hawke continued to talk but Anders was not truly listening, instead falling back on a now missed part of his usual routine; slipping down into his own mind as he tried to sort through his thoughts. The fingers in his hair were distracting, as was Hawke's voice. He pushed them back, as far as he could, and tried to focus on what was left of him.

You don't want to think about this, he thought, I know you don't. You're alone in this now, no matter how many friends and comrades you have, it's just you now. Why did you get drunk last night? Because I forgot about the alcohol. No, no that's a lie. Because I didn't want to cope with anything. I kept drinking even though I knew I was already too far gone. I thought it would suppress all the feelings, all of the fear, but instead it just brought them floating to the surface. I...didn't want to face any of it. I _don't_ want to face any of it, but...

...there's no escaping what's right in front of you. Justice is gone, Alesis is gone, my mother is gone...but I am still here. Anders opened his eyes and watched Hawke continue to talk out of the corner of his eye as he stared at the ceiling. You can't allow everything to slip back to the way it was, to pretend as if nothing has happened because it _has_. Don't escape reality, he said, because you can't. We need to shape this world. Justice is gone, but his goals are not lost, his ideology, his faith. It is still within me, it is still _valid_.

I have returned to Kirkwall empty handed but so much richer. I can be free from my self doubt, the doubt which wracked me any time I had an emotion or warred with Justice over a thought or an idea, the guilt over trapping my friend, imprisoning his spirit. He is free now, whatever he has become. You have grown stronger Anders, you have, you just don't want to see it because it's dangerous, isn't that it? You don't want the responsibility, you don't want to have to think about it, you don't want to be all alone in this...well that's what has happened now and you have to live with this.

And what of Hawke, his conscience asked him knowingly. Anders felt his fingers rub together perhaps a bit too hard, felt his shoulders tense. Going to let him keep treating you like dirt because you're too scared that you'll lose him? If only it were that bloody simple, Anders sighed. I have enough on my conscience without having to battle with the rights and wrongs of love.

Another day, perhaps, another time.

Right now, focus. You can make this work. You get back to Lowtown, you get back to the clinic and you get in contact with the resistance, you find more people for the cause, you heal and help and build and one day, one day soon, everything will explode into revolution. Justice isn't here, Anders thought as he moved his head to the right and watched the sunlight play upon the walls and the carpet, but he is still within me. I still have a duty to all of the people I swore to protect, to set free. I cannot give up on that.

He gripped Hawke's hand tighter and closed his eyes, watching the red light filtering in.


	4. Dogma

The sound of a raised voice, in the square before the grand steps, did not take on any sort of significance until Anders realised what a crowd it had drawn. Yet he still didn't quite believe what he was seeing even as he approached the gathering. The sun was still bright but the shadows were long, casting the First Enchanter in a rather unfortunate and frenzied light.

Anders slowed his pace, which had been carrying him towards Darktown, and watched the elven mage as he paced back and forth, the judicious might of the Viscount's Keep looming behind him. It was a rather ominous juxtaposition, what with Meredith's purposeful commandeering of the Viscount's chambers for her own use, appropriating his role until someone suitable could be found. Of course, Anders thought wryly, that's all, until someone _suitable_ was found, then she'll happily hand over the power to them. Of course.

Yet, despite his cynicism, Anders was truly amazed by the sight before him. Considering his derogatory view of the First Enchanter and the coddled Circle mages under his care, suddenly here was the man himself, standing before what had come to be the symbol of their renewed oppression, making his views very, very apparent.

"I know you fear us," Orsino's clear voice rang out as he pointed accusingly at the crowd of nobles before him, making the ordinary people shift uncomfortably and look to each other in disquiet, "and Meredith uses that fear to take control of our city!"

Finally coming out of your tower and taking a stand? Anders thought as he shifted subtly to the back of the crowd, keeping himself discreetly out of sight as he listened. After losing nearly all of his belongings after his perilous encounter with Alesis and the rather bigoted treatment at Weisshaupt, Anders had been forced to find a new set of clothing with which to conceal himself. Luckily he and Hawke were of a similar height but unfortunately not of a similar build. The rogue had loaned him a thick leather jacket with a hood which, despite missing his own light, feathered coat, he found quite comforting. Mainly because it smelled heavily of Hawke's own musk. It was a comfortable thing, worn and soft, with a myriad of buckles and pockets sewn into it. The only problem being that it was a little baggy around the shoulders, where Hawke's wide build outstripped his more svelt shape. Anders had taken to keeping the hood up, especially when templars were near, something that made him feel a little better considering he no longer had his trusty staff at his back. The thought of its loss still stung, forcing Anders to focus once more on Orsino.

Well, Anders thought wryly, at least he's finally grown a pair. Yet, despite Orsino's rather unexpected behaviour, Anders couldn't help but feel it was all too little too late. All these years of abuse by the templars, Anders thought, and only now do you step up and take a stand?

"She opposes every effort to replace Viscount Dumar, and you have seen the chaos of her reign!" Orsino continued fervently, "Will you allow it? Will you stand by and do _nothing_?"

You sound shocked Orsino, Anders thought with a wry twist to his lips, that the _unafflicted_ people of this city probably wouldn't lift a finger to help a mage if they were on fire, never mind being harassed by templars. Where has this man been living, under a rock? It was only as he thought it that Anders was reminded that Orsino may as well have been living under a rock considering he'd probably spent nearly all of his life in the Circle.

Anders was also reminded, as Orsino continued his tirade, that the man was also obviously a fool for blatantly speaking against Meredith, out in the open no less, no matter how brave it was to do so. For which Anders was justified when the clank of heavy armour became too obvious to ignore and the crowd parted to reveal the woman herself flanked by two templars, pushing their way into the impromptu meeting, her eyes as cold and sharp as steel as they fell on the First Enchanter. Anders took a step backwards so as to stay concealed while the crowd shifted and hushed whispers spread from mouth to ear like wind through reeds. From his half hidden position behind two well dressed women, Anders watched Meredith as she slowly surveyed the crowd, as if judging them for the simple act of daring to listen to the ravings of a mage. Yet, even as Anders focused his disgust on the Knight Commander, he also realised that Orsino had fallen silent. Well what a surprise, Anders thought dryly.

"Return to your homes," Meredith finally stated, "this farce is over."

"Wait!"

Anders had already turned to leave, as had some of the others on the outskirts of the crowd, but that one, impassioned word stopped them all. He hated to admit it but, somehow, Orsino was actually impressing him. Anders turned back to look at the First Enchanter as he stepped down from the impromptu podium he had been pacing upon and faced off against the impressively armoured Commander. A terrible hush had fallen over the crowd.

"Perhaps there are some who might disagree with you, Knight Commander," the dislike with which Orsino said Meredith's official title was too obvious even for Meredith herself to ignore; Anders smirked as he saw her eyes narrow.

Although, Anders was amazed, he hadn't noticed the new arrival until the crowd had once more parted, this time to his right, making more sense of Orsino's sudden bravery; in walked the Champion. Anders was a little taken aback, mainly because Hawke had told him he would be out of town until late, checking on the mine at the Bone Pit. His sudden appearance was a little surprising but not exactly unwanted. Orsino had obviously seen Hawke coming, from his slightly elevated position, and was more than happy to exploit his arrival. Of course, decked out once more in his heavy red and silver armour, his clawed gauntlets and hood pulled low over his eyes, Hawke looked incredibly imposing. Anders couldn't help but indulge for a moment, admiring Hawke's incredible figure as he reached up swiftly and pulled back his hood as he continued to walk towards the two bickering officials. Admittedly, Anders thought as he noted Hawke's furrowed brow, he doesn't look too impressed.

"Don't hide behind the Champion," Meredith ground out, "he has no role in this."

Just as Orsino opened his mouth to offer a surely cutting rebuttal, if his angered expression was anything to go by, Hawke beat him to the punch.

"It would be better if you both calmed down," Hawke said, his words reasonable but his tone aggravated, "before this gets violent."

"I should remain calm while a mage provokes an uprising?" Meredith spat back as she continued to walk threateningly towards Orsino, her templar escort following her as she did so, "I think not!"

"I think the Champion's views would be appreciated," Orsino said, walking forwards himself until the two were face to face, "Or do you fear what he has to say?"

The tension between all three was palpable. Hawke crossed his arms and shook his head as Meredith continued, her voice laced with subtle discontent.

"I fear nothing," she said, waving one gauntleted hand to her left in a strict motion, "my only interest here is keeping order and protecting the innocent."

"And yet your measures have become more extreme since I was last here," Hawke spoke up, looking to the Knight Commander.

"And you think you could do better?" Meredith replied without losing a beat, "The last I checked you were all too happy to abandon your city and go gallivanting around the country at your leisure."

"Oh dear, I hadn't realised I'd been given an official position of state," Hawke said back blithely, quirking his eyebrow, "and that there were no holidays to speak of in the contract."

"Do not talk so impertinently to me, Champion," Meredith replied coldly, "you surprise me, both with your own incompetence and your continued defence of these unruly mages. How well did you guard your own mother? Did she not die at a blood mage's hands?"

The heat of anger was quick to ignite in Anders' gut as he watched Hawke's eyes darken and his sharp, claw like gauntlets begin to cut into the fabric at his biceps. In a way Anders was almost glad he still had not regained the use of his voice for fear that his ire would have prompted him to call out just what was on his mind; something along the lines of Meredith and her not so flattering traits. Even a few of the crowd members had drawn a startled breath at Meredith's flagrant lack of tact. As for Orsino, the mage seemed more than happy to allow Meredith to talk herself deeper and deeper into the proverbial hole, probably hoping to secure himself more support from the Champion.

"Why don't you just stab me in the back while you're at it," Hawke said in reply, his tone rather jokey, but his eyes still as hard as stone.

"Cold corpses speak louder than abstract freedoms, do they not?" Meredith said haughtily, "As long as that is true then Kirkwall needs its templars, more than it needs a new ruler."

"And when will that end?" Orsino finally butted in, "When will you stop seeing evil in every corner?"

"When it's no longer there," Meredith said, her tone final.

Yet, Anders thought with a smile as Hawke opened his mouth, who put Meredith in charge?

"The First Enchanter accused you of trying to take control of the city," Hawke said authoritatively, "are you going to answer those charges or simply keep avoiding them?"

"The city!" Meredith said as if control of the city were only the tip of a much larger iceberg, "I am trying to keep order until there is a ruler capable of succeeding where Dumar failed."

"And if not?" Orsino asked, "Will the templars rule Kirkwall forever?"

"We will not stand idle while the city burns around us," Meredith replied, rather exaggeratedly as far as Anders was concerned; where exactly is all of this chaos you see Meredith, Anders thought as he looked around the peaceful streets, other than the chaos you yourself have created?

"The Templar Order exists to guard the Chantry and the Circle," Orsino said reasonably, "I suggest you leave ruling the city to the nobility, as it has always been."

"I do not need you or anyone to tell me what my duty is," Meredith ground out, adding as if for extra insult, " _mage_."

As far as the palpable tension went, Anders hadn't realised that it could only get worse. The First Enchanter and the Knight Commander were glaring daggers at each other. It seemed like an irreparable situation, one doomed to always fail simply because there was no real solution. Other than to have Meredith back off, Anders thought as he looked to Hawke, waiting for the man to step in and tell them to both cool off. Yet, unsurprisingly, considering it was Hawke he was talking about, the man took Anders completely off guard with his next statement.

"Well if neither of you can decide," Hawke said, "will it keep the peace if I step in?"

There was a glorious moment of twin confusion and shock on both Meredith and Orsino's face during which they both tried to process Hawke's statement. Anders would have laughed, if he too was not imitating that very look as he watched Hawke in astonishment. Was Hawke truly offering to step up and take control of the city _itself_? Anders closed his mouth, only after realising it was hanging open.

"That...that is not going to happen!" Meredith finally managed to say.

"Do you see?" Orsino said objectionably, recovering quite well considering he had seemed as shocked as Meredith was, "She is incapable of reason!"

"Will the both of you just _be_ _quiet_?" Hawke said loudly, once more seemingly to stun the pair into silence; there was a short pause while Hawke unfolded his arms and placed one hand on his hip while the other seemed to absently trace the set of three throwing daggers sheathed at his hip, "No matter what, Knight Commander, he has a point."

Anders felt his heart beat a little faster. He both loved and loathed Hawke's altercations with Meredith, mainly because he would take any opportunity to see the woman brought down to size. Yet there was always the added worry that at some point Meredith would become fed up with Hawke's constant interference in her obvious plans and try a more direct approach; and by direct approach Anders meant an _indirect_ assassin.

"Face the truth, Knight Commander," Orsino said harshly, "you are done."

"That is for me to decide!" Meredith said with obvious anger as she pummelled her balled fist into her open palm, "No one else!"

Which was when, just as everything was becoming rather exciting, another new comer appeared on the scene. The crowd parted once more as the Grand Cleric walked into the fray, her tone light and her face benevolent. It really was enough to make Anders roll his eyes.

"My, my," she said in her whispery voice, "such a terrible commotion."

Yet, despite his dislike of Elthina, Anders enjoyed watching Meredith act cowed, even if only a little.

"This mage incites Rebellion, Your Grace," Meredith hurried to explain, "I am dealing with the matter."

"Ah Orsino," Elthina said kindly, "So frustrated. Do you think this truly wise?"

"I..." Anders looked hopefully at the First Enchanter as the elf's eyes flicked to Hawke and back; all hopes were dashed with the man's reply, "no, Your Grace."

"Of course not," Elthina said, as if she were simply berating naughty children rather than calming the political problems of an entire city, "Young men, would you please show the First Enchanter back to the Circle? Gently, if you please."

Gently, Anders thought with a chuff of breath, what a joke. So that the punishment could be exacted out of the view of public eyes? Having been privy to those very punishments himself, Anders could only fold his arms and shake his head imperceptibly.

"Your Grace!" Meredith was continuing to rant, "He should be clapped in irons, made an example..!"

"That's enough Meredith," Elthina interrupted sternly, "surely you see this demeans us all. Go back to the Gallows and calm down, like a good girl."

Can she not see the malevolence? Anders thought as Meredith stared challengingly at Elthina, seeming only barely able to control herself. There was a short moment where Anders was sure Meredith was going to get herself reprimanded further, but unfortunately the Knight Commander seemed to have more sense than that. Instead of arguing further, Meredith bowed respectfully and turned to follow her guards and Orsino along the cobbled stone back to the Gallows. Despite the dispersing of the crowd, Anders was sure that the tension created still hung in the air like a bad smell. When he looked back, Elthina and Hawke were talking.

"But you're the grand Cleric," Hawke was saying with a hint of frustration, albeit Anders had to sneak closer to hear them, hiding behind a planter filled with wild ferns and dark green ivy, "Aren't you in charge of the templars and the Circle?"

"Oh my!" Elthina laughed, her eyes creasing at the sides, making her seem grandmotherly, "You have quite the estimation of my abilities. Actually, as I have you here Champion, may I ask a favour of you and ask you to visit me later today? It would be most helpful," Hawke sighed but nodded in acquiescence as Elthina turned away from him to address the people still lingering around, hoping for some closure of the argument, "Gentle people of Kirkwall," she said, "return to your homes, I implore you. This will not be solved today."

Not today, Anders thought as he was forced to move on with the others to avoid suspicion. Not today, but soon. Soon everyone would be forced to choose what they would fight for. Perhaps he had been too caught up in his own thoughts, perhaps it was merely because Hawke moved like a cat, but Anders only made it twelve feet before he was yanked into a side alley, strong arms holding him in a tight embrace, the mage's back pulled hard against Hawke's chest as his hood fell down around his shoulders. The alley was dimly lit in the evening light and the people walking the street beyond it didn't spare them a glance as they continued their business, if they could even see them at all.

"Honestly, love, haven't you learned anything of stealth in all these years?" Hawke's deep voice said into his ear, making Anders shiver slightly as he tried to calm his rapidly beating heart, "I thought I told you to be careful where you wandered when I wasn't around."

This was a time when Anders wished he _did_ still have full used of his voice, so that he could tell Hawke to stop being such an overprotective, arrogant prat. Instead, with his exhilaration at the fright Hawke had given him and happiness to see him overriding his annoyance, Anders simply craned his neck to the left and accepted the fierce kiss he knew was waiting there. Hawke took full advantage of Anders' offer, slipping his tongue into the mage's mouth while one gauntleted hand ran down the front of his shirt, the sharp metal obvious through the thin material. Anders lifted his hand and ran this gloved palm over Hawke's bearded cheek, feeling the man smile against his lips. After a further moment of indulgence Hawke pulled away, loosening his hold to allow Anders to turn and face him.

"Well, that was worth waiting for," Hawke grinned, making Anders roll his eyes, "but really Anders, I'm not taking this lightly. Wherever Meredith is, you aren't, remember?"

Anders sighed and lifted his hands to create a wall like shape, his hands joined with palms facing him, between him and Hawke as he shrugged.

"Yes, I know you were hiding yourself," Hawke said as he discerned Anders' meaning, "but that doesn't mean there aren't more templars lurking where you aren't looking. Meredith always has a back up, you know that, and looking for mages in a crowd is what templars do best."

There wasn't really anything he could say to that, or gesture to be more accurate. Anders allowed Hawke to slide his gauntleted hands around the mage's hips and nodded with a sigh. Hawke gave him an awkward smile but leaned in to place a chaste kiss against Anders' lips in some sense of consolation. Anders gave him a soft shove and smirked as he turned and left the alley while Hawke was left to catch up.

"So, heading to Darktown?" Hawke asked.

Anders nodded, rotating one hand around the other to mimic wrapping a bandage. Hawke nodded in reply, to which Anders was secretly glad. In the weeks since their return to Kirkwall, despite Meredith's continued insanity, at the very least Anders found he could take comfort in the fact that Hawke was finally making an effort to understand him. Or at least that was all Anders could assume, having no idea why Hawke had been so very out of turn with him and his inability to talk before hand. Hawke seemed to understand almost all of the things he tried his best to put across, a stark contrast to the frustration and passive aggressiveness that he had been displaying during their journey and as they initially settled back into life in Kirkwall.

"How long will you be at the clinic?" Hawke asked as they shuffled down the stairs to the market, the merchants packing up their stalls as they walked between them; Anders held up his hand and extended his thumb, ring and middle fingers, shaking his hand to show it was a rough estimate, "three in the morning? Isn't that a little late?"

Anders gave Hawke a look to which the other man simply sighed. Considering his lengthy period of absence Anders felt it was his duty, more than anything else, to devote all the time he could to helping the people of Darktown. Merrill had kept her word and helped out while he was gone but, unfortunately, the elf was no healer and, as such, had been able to do little more than dispense potions. He knew that there would be many people who needed his more precise talents and he wasn't going to allow a little sleeplessness to get in his way.

He and Hawke's footsteps feel into sync, unnoticed, as they walked and Hawke seemed to shift subtly closer to him. Anders shoved his hands into the fur lined pockets of his jacket.

"Then I'll come and pick you up at three," Hawke said as they reached the top of the stairs, "I need to head home just now, I have some letters I need Bodahn to deliver before the day is out."

Oh here we go, Anders thought in annoyance. All the mage could think to do was shake his hand and frown to get Hawke's attention. The rogue looked at him in confusion for a moment before he seemed to cotton on.

"Oh come on Anders," Hawke said with a hint of frustration, even as he lowered his voice, "give me this peace of mind at least. It's bad enough that you're wondering the city with no way to defend yourself as it is but at that time of night?"

Anders raised both his hands and shook them as he gave Hawke a long suffering stare. The man simply glared back.

"Don't think I'm an idiot," he said, "I know that the magic in your left hand is still weak. I'll be there at three, will you just...will you just wait for me? Please?"

The subtle endearment of saying please was, from Hawke, enough to make Anders realise that the rogue's overprotective nature was, at the very least, somewhat warranted; Anders' _knew_ why Hawke was being this way, it didn't take a huge leap to understand, and the more he thought about it the more he realised that he could maybe give him a break and allow him this small thing. The nod of approval won him a warm smile from Hawke, which made it even more worthwhile.

* * *

It had been a month since his return to Kirkwall, a month of settling back into old routines, of meeting up with old friends, of assessing the damage of Meredith's continued reign, the state of the resistance, of long hours of research in his study, in Hawke's library and, when he could, sneaking as deftly as he could into the Chantry's archives and the Kirkwall museum to poke about between the relics. As far as most people were concerned, things were carrying on as usual, nothing had really changed since he had left.

But Anders could see the difference. Mainly because of his long absence, he could see the changes that had occurred during that time, no longer obvious to those within the city to whom the changes had been slow and thus easy to miss. The mage resistance were the only ones who seemed truly aware of the raised number of templar patrols, the increasing numbers of raids and break-ins, mostly to falsely accuse men and women of being mages and drag them off to the Gallows in the middle of the night for interrogation.

"It's getting out of hand Anders," Sabine had told him as she sat in Anders clinic while he tried his best to light the fire to rid the room of the pervasive smell of damp, "the templars...it's as if they've gone mad. Meredith has doubled patrols, you can't walk down the street without seeing three or four of them marching around their route! And no one is willing to oppose her, no one."

Anders had stopped what he was doing, sitting down on his dirty mat by the fire to look up at Sabine. The woman seemed older than when he had last seen her, the grey thicker in her hair, her face care worn and aged by the constant pensive expression she wore. Unable to offer any words of comfort, all he had been able to do was nod, his face sincere.

"It's becoming impossible to move around," Sabine had eventually continued, "I'm just worried that they'll discover our routes through the sewers soon. Up until now they've kept away because of the Coterie's influence but now I feel that Meredith fears no one. If that happens...Anders I don't know what will become of us. They'll have us trapped. Meredith wants us all dead, or imprisoned, far more than she ever did. I don't know what is happening anymore."

Which Anders had discovered first hand over the weeks to come. Re-opening the clinic had been a slow process. It turned out that William and Cricket had fallen under the care of another renegade mage in his absence, a woman named Evelina. Anders thought he recognised her name from somewhere, in fact he had been sure he'd seen her around Darktown before, begging money from passing strangers. He'd had no idea she was a mage but she seemed to be a good woman, from what he could tell. It took him a week just to get word out that his clinic was open again but, as soon as the word spread, it didn't take long for William to turn up at his door. The youth had been overjoyed to see he was alright, but rather unnerved and concerned at his lack of voice.

Most people were, it seemed, and it was increasingly difficult to deal with. Yes he may have been able to write down his words instead of speaking them aloud, but illiteracy was rife in Darktown and barely anyone, if anyone at all, could read or write. Which was why Anders had never been more glad that Callum was there. The tall mage was still a bit of a difficult area for Anders, one that he wasn't entirely sure how to deal with. Callum had been staying at the Hanged Man ever since Varric offered his hospitality but it had been clear to Anders that the man felt uneasy. The source of this unease was difficult to ferret out, mainly hindered by his inability to directly ask Callum what was wrong, but Anders was sure it was a mix of both dislike of charity, Kirkwall's rather military atmosphere, a feeling of stagnancy and, perhaps, even Anders himself considering Hawke was constantly at his side, when he could be.

Yet, despite all of these suppositions, the man was still there, still weathering his own worries, all because of Anders; for which the mage wasn't sure how to feel. In a way he almost wished Callum weren't there at all as, well, to be honest with himself, he was a _temptation_. The man had been a constant source of that since they met.

"You need the help, Anders," Callum had said seriously as he and Anders sat by the fire in The Hanged Man, a week after they had returned to Kirkwall, "look, I'm not planning on staying much longer than a few months, Maker knows I couldn't afford it anyway and I don't want to live on your friends charity, but...I owe it to you."

Anders had sighed and looked angry, a mixture of anger at Callum for being both responsible _and_ irresponsible, in wanting to help him and thusly get himself involved in Anders' dangerous line of work, and anger at himself for trying to push the other man away purely for personal reasons. Thankfully it had turned out that the other man was far more stubborn than even Anders was.

"How do you think you'll get by, hmm?" Callum had stated, forcing Anders to look at him as he spoke, "Going to carry an ink well and paper with you everywhere? Think anyone will be able to read it, let alone care? Look...I know you don't want me to stay but I'm staying and that's final. If I want to repay you for your kindness then let me do it in my own way."

To which Anders had no rebuttal. They had sat together, staring into the fire, until Anders had finally scribbled down a slow 'fine' onto a piece of Varric's parchment and shoved it towards Callum. The taller mage hadn't even looked at it, just smiled to himself knowingly, as if he already knew that Anders had acquiesced. It had made Anders both annoyed that the man was so sure of himself and also happy, just a little, that he seemed to know Anders well enough to correctly predict him.

So Callum had joined him, literally. Callum joined him every day at the clinic and, whenever Anders scribbled something down, Callum would interpret, as simple as that. Yet, simple as that was, it took a little getting used to and, at first, his usual patients had been more than a little wary at the presence of a stranger. However, it didn't take long for things to settle down; firstly because Callum was ridiculously charming and good with people, and secondly because the man was a good healer himself. Whenever Anders tired, or simply needed help with a complex injury, Callum was there to substitute Anders' healing abilities with his own or simply combine the two.

Something which Anders had been so worried about, his ability to cope with being unable to communicate, had become almost a blessing in disguise. Whenever Hawke inquired, passive aggressively, why Callum had been seen with Anders on many separate occasions, the answer Anders gave was not something the rogue could argue with. Of course Hawke had settled down a little but the man's jealousy still lingered. It was an irritating thing but, guiltily, Anders could not begrudge him it, considering the infidelities he had performed with the very man Hawke directed his jealousy towards. The thought made Anders stomach flip over nervously. The more he wished it had never happened, the more it made him think of it, which in turn made his heart race, which in turn made his stomach turn. It was a rather vicious cycle, which was why Anders tried his best not to think of it at all and allow the guilt to simmer in the background where he could ignore it as best he could.

Yet, despite Callum's generous offer of help, it did not mean that Anders intended to live with his new found disability, definitely not. The main subject that he had been researching, along with many others, had been the very thing which had stolen his voice from him. The _thing_ which had appeared within the doorway, the thing which had stared into his very soul and smiled cunningly as he and Malcolm Hawke had stood in the Gateway and stared right back. Unfortunately, so far, he had found absolutely nothing. No mention of a 'Gate' or 'Gateway' which existed between the physical realm and the realm of spirits and demons. No mention of a guardian, or of something along those lines. Mainly the tomes he found spoke of 'death' as an entity, but it was mainly superstitious nonsense or fairy tales, nothing that vaguely resembled the thing which he had witnessed.

The very thought of it, of its eyes and its smile, sent the hairs at the nape of his neck on end, as if someone were blowing freezing air along the skin at the top of his spine. He had vowed not to give up, to use his new found ethos of optimism upon the very thing which needed it the most, but it was becoming increasingly disheartening to find nothing, or nothing useful at least.

He had tried his best to get in touch with Keeper Marethari, hoping that the woman may have had some insight into his malady, but whenever he visited the Dalish camp he was informed that the Keeper was not to be disturbed. Even with Callum or Hawke at his side to try and plead for entrance, the guards would not be swayed, and neither would they explain their reasons. Anders had given up on asking and had instead fallen back on his own resources to try and find a cure for himself.

Another very unhelpful fact of his encounter had been the nightmares. Anders thought he'd had it bad before, but now he could barely go two nights without waking up in a cold sweat, shaking all over, with only the remnants of teeth and eyes following him up from the darkness of his nightmare. It had become so debilitating that he was not only tired himself but he knew that Hawke was also losing sleep. Sometimes, without telling the rogue, he would wait until Hawke was asleep before laying a soft kiss on his cheek, slipping out of the bed and going to the spare room to sleep in the cold bed with Madam at his feet, purring softly. Suffice to say that they were still not the best night's sleep he had ever had, and he was only lucky that he always awoke before Hawke did, allowing him to sneak back into to warmth of his lover's bed without his absence being noticed. Or so he hoped anyway.

Other than his own personal problems, Anders had also been left in the dark as to the situation of the Ferelden Wardens. Nathaniel and his troops had left on a trading vessel three days after their arrival in Kirkwall. Nathaniel left with the promise to send word as soon as he found out exactly what had happened and what was happening. Anders had been left waiting in suspense ever since, desperate for news of his friends and his Commander, left staring at Hawke's mail deliveries like an eagle, constantly disappointed when Hawke would simply give him a sympathetic glance and shake his head. What had happened? Where were they? The questions circled his mind whenever Anders found the time to dwell on it which, considering how busy he was with the resistance and his clinic, was blessedly little. It would be the first time Anders was glad for being overworked.

As for the state of Kirkwall, Sabine had been right, far more than Anders had ever believed would be true. The templars were not just a presence any longer but more on the scale of a full military coup. On the short trip from Hawke's mansion to Lowtown, while making his way to Darktown, he had been forced to evade at least three patrols, marching through the streets with the sunlight glinting upon their armour. It had amazed him as much as it had worried him, mainly because he hadn't realised just how many templars Meredith had obviously recruited over the past few years to allow for this mass occupation. The resistance had been glad for his return. Anders had never really realised what an integral part he had become of the machine that made up their fight against the templars, until the others welcomed him back with open arms and, from many, warm embraces.

Yet, it turned out, Kirkwall's templar problem was not the first thing on their agenda. The crisis in Ferelden, what with the King dead and the threatening shadow of Orlais looming on the horizon, had been the most major issue. Thankfully, considering the massive upheaval that was underway when Anders, Callum and the dog turned up, it meant that the others were uncharacteristically lenient in allowing both Callum and Sascha into their midst, for which he was very glad considering it would have been far slower going if he'd tried to communicate on his own. It also meant there was little to no time for them to inquire as to Anders' journey, for which he was doubly glad. A few of the children, who had been brought by their mothers, were also overjoyed at the sight of Sascha and spent the entire night running around the clinic with the large dog loping after them, wagging her tail happily.

Unfortunately, Sascha and the children had been the only happy ones at the meeting. The mainstay of the operation had focused strictly on the state of play in Ferelden, for which there were mixed feelings. Some felt that, even with the death of King Alastair, that Ferelden would uphold its ideals and keep their oath to protect _all_ of its citizens. The opposing camp believed that if the teryns had been brazen and enthusiastic enough to slaughter their own monarch and all those who stood with him, then there was a good chance they would renounce all that the King had stood for as well, including the offer of safety for all mages. Anders found himself somewhere in between; yes he believed that it was a risky business believing that the teryns would keep any deal that Alistair had made, but on the other hand the reason that they had committed regicide, as far as Anders could tell, had been because of Alastair's proposed wedding to an Orlesian princess. If the teryns were so very opposed to Orlesian rule then there was a chance, no matter how slim, that they would fight any form of Orlesian presence; and that included the Chantry.

Suffice to say that it had been a long night. Long enough that, when they all made to leave, Callum had to wake Sascha and the children, who had curled up against the large dog in the corner and were all sleeping soundly.

As far as the others were concerned, it had been only Merrill who was the last to find out about Anders' and Hawke's return, for which he had felt a little guilty. The elf had flitted between being ecstatic to see them well and safe and chiding them endlessly for not coming to tell her immediately. Anders had been amazed that she hadn't heard of the Champions return earlier, considering it seemed to be all Anders heard of people's conversations on the street, but Varric had cleared things up for him later by explaining that Merrill had not been out and about much recently.

"Can't stop staring into that broken mirror," Varric had informed him solemnly, "and in all honesty, I'm not sure she likes what she sees anymore."

It hadn't been the best of news. In fact, Anders found it plainly worrying, which really only added to his list of things he needed to fret about; and also added to his list of things he needed to continue to research. His studies seemed to be overwhelming his over priorities, when he thought about it, considering his plans for ferreting out the true meaning behind the Band of Three seemed to be becoming buried beneath a list of insurmountable odds.

* * *

He wouldn't lie, it was a little lonely without William hanging around. The youth had been doing so well with this Evelina that Anders barely saw the boy anymore. Of course he and Cricket popped their heads in now and then, bringing any meagre supplies they had managed to acquire, more than likely stolen Anders was sure but he didn't have the heart to refuse them, but other than that the two were only rumours spread through the overheard conversations of others. Sometimes he asked Callum to ask any children that visited the clinic for news of the pair but it was usually the same, that they were ' _around_ _and_ _about_ ' which told Anders next to nothing other than they were normally still in Darktown.

Anders knew that he shouldn't but he couldn't help but worry about them. Makes me almost glad I never had the chance to have children, he thought trying to be lighthearted about the idea but only ending up making himself more miserable, imagine how much I would worry then? He stared into the small fire he had lit, watching the smoke curl and twist up the small, makeshift chimney that led into the sewers, lost in thought.

"Slow night," Callum said finally, jerking him from the solitude of his own mind.

It was all he could do to nod in reply, leaning back in his chair to give the tall mage an odd look. It wasn't like Callum to make small talk, especially very obvious small talk, but the other man was sitting a little uncomfortably on Anders' table, his feet planted firmly on the ground. Callum smiled at him and scratched behind his ear, looking away from Anders' inquisitive gaze.

What on earth was that all about? Anders wondered as he tried to catch Callum's eye once more, unsuccessfully. The silence left behind was filled only by the crackling of the fire and the occasional sound from the sewers, the rushing of water and the odd clanking of large doors and pipeways. Anders drew in a long breath and let it out as a slow hissing stream of air, relaxing his shoulders and closing his eyes. He hadn't truly thought about how tired he was until he closed them, allowing his eyes to rest for a brief moment. It was nice to have this small amount of time to himself, even if technically he wasn't alone. Oddly enough, even though Callum was sitting only a few feet away, Anders found his companionship to be more soothing than awkward. In a way it was nice to know that he wasn't by himself, not entirely.

It was only when he opened his eyes once more to find Callum standing just to his left, looking down at him quizzically, that Anders didn't feel quite so calm. In fact he jumped so badly that he nearly toppled the small, rickety chair in which he sat, only saved when Callum reached out swiftly to steady it with both hands, one on each arm of the chair. This, of course, only brought Callum incredibly close; when the two managed to right themselves, Anders looked up to find Callum's face only a foot from his own. There was a moment of silence, in which Anders wasn't sure what else to do but _stare_ , before Callum cleared his throat, somewhat uncomfortably, and stood back.

What was that I was thinking before about not being awkward? Anders thought as he swallowed. Considering all of the things he _had_ to think about, here came one of the things he didn't _want_ to think about.

"Sorry," Callum said as Anders stood from his chair to stand by the fire to the tall mage's left, "I just thought you might have fallen asleep."

Anders looked up to his left and smiled with a shrug, trying to make it as easy and carefree as possible. Thankfully Callum seemed to fall for it. At the very least it eased the tension and seemed to urge Callum to talk.

"I..." he started, before trailing off, "actually I was wondering if I could ask you something?"

That sounds...ominous, Anders thought. He hesitated only a few seconds before nodding. It was Callum's own hesitation after Anders' giving him the go ahead that only puzzled the smaller mage further. Yet, as sods law denoted, it was at that moment that there came a loud, abrasive knock at the door. Instead of Anders, this time it was Callum's turn to start badly. Anders held up one finger to ask Callum to give him a minute while the other man tried to laugh off his jumping at nothing.

"Of course," Callum said, "go ahead."

It's probably just Hawke, Anders thought. Considering a clock was an incredibly sensitive, large and woefully expensive piece of equipment Hawke was lucky enough to have one in his mansion, never mind Anders having one in his hole of a clinic. In all honesty he tended to guess as to the time, mostly unsuccessfully, and, considering he was dead tired, he supposed it was probably about three o'clock in the morning. Opening the door, however, revealed to him that his estimate was probably off considering it was not Hawke on his doorstep, but instead a wholly unexpected visitor.

"May I come in?" Fenris asked, his face set rather stonily.

At the first nod of acceptance Fenris slid past Anders and into the clinic with the sleek grace of a large cat. Anders made to close the door before rethinking his action and first of all leaning over to blow out the lantern. He was hopeful that no one else would turn up at this time anyway but, if the look on Fenris's face had been anything to go by, he would rather they weren't interrupted.

"I'm sorry to barge in like this," Fenris said as he paced quickly into the room, "but..."

Anders turned to find Fenris staring at Callum and Callum staring at Fenris, in what was really a rather comical look of surprise. He walked over to them and, once more, repeated the gesture he had used before answering the door. Callum cottoned on fairly quickly.

"I'll just be outside," he said softly, before he walked to the door and exited without another word; Anders felt momentarily guilty that he hadn't let Callum finish what he had wanted to ask. Plenty of time for that, I suppose, Anders thought before he turned to Fenris and extended his palm as an offer for the elf to continue.

Fenris did not continue immediately. Instead he sighed and paced towards the fire, stopping only to inspect the flames, before returning to the spot he had just occupied. Anders watched him with inquisitive patience, until the elf decided to talk.

"I need to ask a favour of you," Fenris said, placing his hands on his hips.

His statement was met with a slow, inquiring nod. And that would be? Anders thought. Fenris had admittedly not been entirely easy to deal with since Anders had lost his voice. Not only was it incredibly difficult to communicate with the elf through writing, considering he was still basically illiterate, but Fenris was also very distrustful of strangers. So having Callum try and translate for him was out of the question. Thus they hadn't really spoken very often during the past month. In fact Anders was sure, as he watched Fenris try not to pace, that he hadn't seen the elf in about two weeks. He wondered if his absence had anything to do with his current agitation.

"It's about...bloody hell, I wouldn't even be asking you if Hawke would just..." Fenris stopped and started, his tone verging on angry, sighing roughly after each aborted sentence; the elf took a moment to stare into the fire and seemed, to Anders, to be composing himself. When he finally met the mage's gaze once more he seemed to have calmed down, at least a little, from whatever had him so troubled before, "I think I have found my sister."

Well that's not what I was expecting, Anders thought as his eyes widened. He wasn't sure how to tell Fenris what good news he thought this was, so he tried smiling instead. Fenris did not seem so very enthused, which only confused Anders. Wasn't this what he wanted? the mage thought.

"No, I mean yes it is good, only..." Fenris's agitation had returned, "I just can't trust it. I received a letter from her, saying that she would be staying at the Hanged Man all of this coming week, she would be there every night...and that all I have to do is go there in order to see her. It's just..."

Oh, Anders thought, I see. He reached up, catching Fenris's eye, and clasped one of his wrists with his other hand. Fenris obviously did not misunderstand _that_ gesture.

"Yes," the elf sighed, leaning against the fireplace, "I think Denarius has set a trap. I mean how could I not? I've been searching for so long and now, all of a sudden, she appears before me like bait on a hook. I am sure that a man such as Denarius would have kept my family under his iron grip in case they could be of use in trapping me. I would be stupid to believe otherwise...but..."

It was a horrible predicament, Anders would admit. He wanted to console Fenris, who seemed far more distressed than he was letting on, but was unsure as to how he would take it. Instead Anders just stayed quiet, hoping that the elf would give him something more to work with, such as the favour he was hoping the mage would do for him.

"But I have to know," Fenris said with frustrated sadness, more than he had ever shown to Anders before; the elf's eyes shone once more with the stony anger he had arrived with, making Anders frown, "I asked Hawke, I asked him as a friend if he would come with me and he told me that it was such an obvious trap that there was no way he would ever walk us both into it."

Typical Hawke, Anders thought with a sigh and a shake of his head. The man had such terrible tunnel vision for keeping people safe that he was blind to the damage he was doing through his actions. It was obvious that Fenris was having far more trouble dealing with his emotions than he ever would dealing with a fight. In fact, on some level, Anders was surprised that Hawke hadn't been up for a battle. The man was normally all for giving slavers a good cut to remember him by. Of course, since their disastrous journey, Hawke's overprotective streak had become infinitely wider and more difficult to deal with. Anders should know.

"I know it makes sense," Fenris continued in an oddly subdued tone, sounding as defeated as he looked as he stared into the flames, "I know that it's all too good to be true, but I don't think I could live with myself if I didn't go, if I didn't make the effort to reclaim my past. This could mean everything, Anders, _everything_. She could give me all that I have lost."

When Fenris met Anders' amber eyes with his own penetrating green, there was a hint of a connection there that went beneath all of the past rivalry and hatred and even past their tentative friendship. It was a visceral connection, something which sparked with Anders' own raw feelings of loss and family. No one should even have to live without family, Anders thought as he stared at Fenris, and at the very least no one should have to live without the memories of those who loved them.

"I do not say it will not be dangerous," Fenris said solemnly, "and Hawke has asked Varric to keep an eye out to make sure I don't do exactly what I'm going to do, so our window for opportunity is small. Either that or I brute force my way past him, that's up to the dwarf."

Once more Anders was not surprised that Hawke had asserted his influence over Varric, who generally fell down on Hawke's side of the argument. Fenris continued to hold his gaze.

"I don't know who else to ask Anders," Fenris said, his voice regaining its usual authority as he spoke, "will you come with me?"

It was incredibly blunt but, considering the amount of sidetracking Fenris had done to get there, Anders supposed that it wasn't really as blunt as Fenris normally was; which only further showed his anxiety. Yes this is probably stupid, Anders thought, yes it's probably a trap, but it's right in the middle of the city and if anything goes wrong surely we'll have guards and templars running in at the drop of a hat to arrest whatever foolish blood mage or magister decides to show up. Which could also be an added problem, Anders thought, considering the templars would probably be more than happy to take me in as well. I'm sure I'm going to regret this, he thought as he nodded decisively to the relieved elf, but don't I always say that? Fenris's smile, however small, was incredibly genuine.

"Thank you Anders," he said, "you're a true comrade."

Well, it was the best compliment he'd ever been given by the elf and he would take it for what it was worth. He returned the smile as Fenris opened his mouth to speak once more but, again, another rap at the door interrupted them. Oh for fuck's sake, Anders thought with a harsh sigh, what the bloody hell is it now? Anders held up his hand and Fenris nodded while the mage went to answer the door. What on earth does Callum want now? he thought as he pulled open the door with annoyance, only to be given a face full of Hawke. Anders looked at him in surprise, to which Hawke only looked entirely confused. There seems to be a lot of that going on recently doesn't there, Anders thought.

"Hello, love. Are you alright?" Hawke asked in concern, "I couldn't leave until three, sorry I'm a bit late, I had some..."

Hawke trailed off as he looked up only to find Fenris walking towards them. Anders moved out of the way as the elf, his face blank once more, manoeuvred himself past Anders and then partially pushed past Hawke. The rogue moved out of the way, his face momentarily falling as Fenris blatantly ignored him.

"Fenris?" he said in confusion, "Wait, Fenris I..!"

The elf was gone without another word, even as Hawke vainly called out after him. Anders cleared his throat while Hawke stared after the elf as he disappeared into the darkness, putting on his best confused face so as to make Hawke think he had no idea what was going on. Hawke licked at his lower lip before looking back to Anders. The rogue shook his head.

"Long story," he said in annoyance, "what on earth was he doing here?"

So suspicious Hawke, Anders thought, although this time you have every right to be I suppose. Considering Anders was sure Hawke wouldn't be impressed to learn that he and Fenris were planning to more than likely tackle a magister and his cronies by themselves, he picked lying over telling the truth. He held out his hand and let a whitish green healing glow pulse in his palm.

"He was hurt?" Hawke asked, still looking skeptical.

Anders took his finger and ran it along his upper arm savagely. Hawke breathed deeply before sighing. He didn't look exactly convinced, Anders could tell, but at least he dropped the subject.

"I'll have to ask him how he ended up with _that_ cut," Hawke said, "if he ever deigns me fit to speak to again. Come on, let's get home, I'm knackered."

Anders agreed before looking around in confusion. He looked back to Hawke with an accusatory look in his eye. The rogue knew exactly what he was referring to and, thankfully, didn't try and weasel his way out of it.

"Oh, right," he said as he gestured for Anders to follow him; the mage kept his displeased expression while he quickly nipped back into the clinic to douse the fire and then locked the door; Hawke continued as they both began the long journey back up to Hightown, "Callum was out here when I arrived. I told him he might as well go home. No need to look after you while I'm here, right?"

I wouldn't dignify that with an answer even if I could, Anders thought angrily. Honestly Hawke, he thought as he gave the rogue a chiding glare, he's my bloody friend. I don't need you here like a fucking chaperone. Then, as he hated, his own indignation only dug up the deeply buried guilt once more. There were flashes of hands on skin, lips pressed urgently against lips and the comforting warmth of Callum's arms, and then it was gone, leaving Anders feeling cold, angry and sad simultaneously. He stared straight ahead as he walked, glad that Hawke seemed content to simply walk at his side, while he forced the roiling in his stomach to calm down. Suffice to say it was a far longer, quieter walk home than he had been hoping for. Normally their walks were filled by Hawke's idle talk, or even sometimes the rogue's arm in his as they walked the barren streets, but there was an air of slight discomfiture that he simply couldn't break through, mainly caused by his own thoughts.

By the time they reached the mansion Anders was mainly lost in his own world. Which was why the sound of an entirely unfamiliar voice, as he walked with Hawke up the stairs and towards the master bedroom, was such a shock. Anders started badly and actually found himself backing away one step, causing him to bump into Hawke who reached up to grasp his shoulders and steady him. Anders stared at the stranger who had appeared before him and wondered why on earth the man was there, and why he looked so oddly familiar. His piercing, light blue eyes bored into Anders with a similar look of vague recognition while his high cheekbones and perfectly chiselled, regal features were set into an entirely pleasant visage.

"Oh, I apologise Serrah Hawke," the stranger said in an incredibly thick Western Marches accent, "I did not mean to disturb you. Only I was looking for a cup of water."

"Not a problem," Hawke said; Anders looked up over his shoulder to find that Hawke too was in his usual pleasant mode, which he always adopted for dealing with relative strangers, "at the bottom of the stairs turn left, it's the second door you see. The pump's in there."

"Thank you," the man said as he walked past them, heading towards the stairs; Anders turned and watched him as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing, when the man turned with a look of final understanding on his face, "ah, and of course it is a pleasure to see you again, Serrah Anders. Goodnight to you both."

And with that the man disappeared with the soft padding of slippered feet down the rug covered stairs. Anders turned to look at Hawke and the man looked back with a slightly guilty expression before leading them both quickly into the bedroom and closing the door.

"Right, I'm sorry about that," Hawke started quickly as Anders rounded on him with an angry expression, "I should have told you but I thought I could leave it until tomorrow, I didn't think we would run into him tonight and..."

Hawke stopped as he looked up into Anders' very annoyed eyes. Who in the fuck was that!? the mage wanted to shout, but instead he simply spread his hands and glared at Hawke. The stranger seemed so familiar and yet Anders was sure it was for all the wrong reasons; the man's immaculate, expensive outfit, his piercing eyes, his pleasantly regal face and his heavy accent. Hawke cleared his throat and placed his hands on his hips. By the Maker I am too tired for this crap, Anders thought as Hawke opened his mouth.

"It's not for long, I promise, only until he finds somewhere to stay," Hawke said, "the Grand Cleric asked if I would offer him accommodation as a favour. I mean, you remember him don't you?"

Anders shook his head decisively, highly irritated that the other man had obviously remembered his name even thought Anders could not remember his. In a way he wasn't really entirely angry about the sudden entrance of a house guest, it wouldn't be the first time Hawke had invited strangers into his house, but his irritation was only compounded by all of his own anxieties and exhaustion. Hawke continued quickly.

"Ah, well, do you remember when we stayed in Val Chevin, while I was ill?" Hawke asked, making Anders cast his mind back, "his name is Sebastian Vael, he's from Starkhaven."

As soon as he heard the name the switch in his memory flipped and, all of a sudden, the anger at this situation was _wholly_ on the fact that Hawke had invited this man into their house. The haughty face and the masked disdain came flooding back and Anders didn't feel any better than when he couldn't remember. The Starkhaven prince that he had been hearing about, the one who, as far as he could tell by the few rumours he had heard, worked for the _Chantry_ , the man who, last time they had met, seemed fairly happy with Hawke and not very happy with Anders for obvious bloody reasons. And Hawke thought it would be a good idea to invite him here of all places? he thought angrily. The man works for the bloody Chantry!

Oh fucking _wonderful_ , was all Anders could bring himself to think while Hawke continued to try and explain. Could things get any worse than they currently were? I need sleep, he thought wearily as Hawke continued to try and reassure him, lots and lots of sleep. Anders stopped Hawke from rambling by effectively walking forwards and placing his fingers against the man's lips. The rogue stopped talking and looked at Anders resignedly. The mage just shook his head and tugged the other man towards the bed.

"You're right," Hawke said in agreement, reaching up to begin undoing his armour; his acquiescence was unfortunately too quick and thus showed just how happy Hawke was to drop the subject in favour of hopefully getting out of an argument all together, "let's get some sleep. We can discuss it tomorrow."

To bloody right we can, Anders thought, don't think you're escaping _that_ easily.


	5. Self-Inflicted

The light filtered down through pale, blue mist, casting the ground in a greyish hue. Water fell, unseen, against rock; tap, plink, tap, rock and pool. He walked as if in a waking dream. His legs moved but he did not feel the connection to his own thoughts. It was somewhat tantalising, like spying a warm bonfire through the trees in a strange forest. Yet, also, just as strangely unnerving.

Admittedly he hadn't been in control of his dreams for long. Ever since Justice the Fade had been nothing _but_ a dream, a lost land of freedom and a realm of spirits and demons. Anders would be the first to say that he was ecstatic to have it back, but then perhaps that was a poor choice of words on his part. However, there were always precautions to be taken, ones that even the most novice of apprentices had drilled into them from a young age.

Anders had never been one for dallying around the wrong places in somewhere as dangerous and unpredictable as the Fade, and there certainly were _wrong_ places. The dreamlike dimension was an odd and yet serene place, which tended to throw the unwary traveller off guard. Anders knew, oh he knew, that there were certain places you did not go and there were certain people you did not talk to. His harrowing had taught him that much, if nothing else. The Fade had an unsettling ability to dig into your subconscious thoughts, ferreting out your deepest desires...and your darkest fears. If you let it suck you in, if you wandered too close to a demon's territory, it would sense you like a wolf senses a wounded stag. They fed on fear, on doubt, on human folly; a divine ambrosia to any demon.

Which Anders knew all too well. Which was why he was so very terrified when he realised just where he had stumbled. The small ridge had seemed nothing special, rough grey stone, slightly crumbling beneath his fingers as he pulled his body up and over it. He lowered himself down on the other side and looked up slowly. The mist-like quality of the air here was somewhat thinner and tinged with a slightly purplish hue. There was a distinct hint of perfume in the air, heady and thick like wine, enough to make any man drunk on its scent. The wind turned from the usual harsh whistling against bare rock to a melody, light and airy, dancing around your ears. The ground turned from rock to grass beneath his feet and the small quarry-like area he found himself in became decked in flowers, dripping across the walls of rock like delicate curtains.

Anders had immediately known where he must be. With a tightness in his throat he tried to turn himself, tried to force his body back towards the small cliff he had slid down and escape, only his body was unresponsive. He could not move, no matter how hard he tried. Oh Maker, Anders thought desperately as he heard the telltale sound of a woman singing, drawing closer, I have to get out of here! Yet his feet stayed firmly against the fictitious grass, his eyes stayed forwards, allowing him to witness the demon sway into view. Its purplish skin was barely a hue above the mist itself, making it seem to emerge from the air like a mirage, black, almond eyes watching him curiously as it swayed its hips and walked seductively closer. How in Thedas did I get myself into this situation? Anders thought with agitation. Yes he knew how to deal with demons in the Fade, but he could feel the power radiating from this one. The scent of his psychosis and his underlying fear and doubt must be driving it wild, Anders thought with disgust. I have to get out of here, fast.

"My, my," the demon said, making Anders' skin crawl, "what do we have here? You seem to have lost your way."

"Yes," Anders said, "I am lost."

Wait, Anders thought, startled, _wait_. I can...I can talk? I can talk here? But I don't even remember saying that...I, how is this possible. Can I talk? Anders opened his mouth, feeling, despite his situation, a sudden rush of pure excitement...only to be doused as he found himself as unable to control his mouth as he was unable to control his legs. But, he thought with a rising sense of dread as the demon drew closer, if I'm not talking then...

"Poor little thing," the demon said, its voice sickly sweet and yet oh so endearing, "you must be scared, lonely. I can help you, I can make your deepest dreams a reality, all of your desires laid out before you. You don't want to be lonely anymore, do you?"

"I want to belong," the voice said, making Anders panic just as much as the approaching demon was, "I need to know."

"Of course you do," the demon said as it reached out one sleek, clawed hand to touch his cheek; Anders internally loathed the nearness of the creature, with its arsenic smile, "I'm sure we can find something that..."

Skin contacted skin. Anders felt it, even though he could not raise his arm to bat the demon away. Yet the feeling was...different somehow. It felt wrong. The demon frowned, her dark eyes dancing, and as quick as a startled thrush it snapped its hand back and stepped away, its tail lashing back and forth like an angry cat. Anders started to feel nauseous, his head light and his heartbeat increased, his chest tightening.

"No..." the demon said, sounding suddenly agitated and, dare he say it, _fearful_ , "that isn't possible! What do you want here? Who _are_ you? What do you want!"

"I need to know," the voice said again, emanating from his lips even as Anders knew he had not moved them, his feet carrying him forwards towards the worried demon; Anders began to panic, feeling as if he had run for miles without stopping, his chest aching and aching...as if...as if the knife were once more...

"No, stay away from me!" the demon screamed as he approached, scrambling backwards ungracefully, all semblance of allure gone as it tried to flee its own trap, "don't touch me!"

A hand reached out, the demon screamed, high pitched and piercing, its smile turned into a terrible grimace as it cowered against the cliff, claws curled around the jutting rocks; all as Anders felt his stomach roil and the familiar and yet incredible relief of release.

He awoke suddenly and loudly. The ground greeted him with a heavy smack against his left shoulder and head, the pain flaring even as he tried to scramble his way out of the thick blanket he was trapped within. He thrust back and forth with his hand and kicked his legs, feeling suffocated within the tight wool, the remnants of his nightmare fuelling his panic. Finally he pulled free, breaking into the cold air of early morning with a heaving gasp, the skin on his arms turning to gooseflesh as he wrapped them around himself instinctually.

Maker, he thought as he calmed his breathing and took stock of the dark room with wild eyes, the mantelpiece barely visible from the subtle glow leaking in under the heavy curtains. He leaned back and felt the thick, bulging cushion against his back. He took one more jerky breath to steady himself. Just a nightmare, he said over and over in his head as he leaned forwards and fished around on the side table for the stump of a candle he had put there last night. Lighting it did at least manage to dispel the last remnants of fear clinging to his mind. The living room was softly illuminated by the lambent flame, casting flickering shadows across the wall as Anders placed it, once more, upon the table. He did not like the dark, never had, for many reasons, all of which he found were far more legitimate than any irrational fear another person may have had, or so Anders liked to think.

What a ridiculous nightmare, he thought as he pulled himself up and bundled himself back onto the couch. What on earth was I thinking, not paying attention to where I was going, what a stupid, asinine mistake! And...and that desire demon it, well, it must have made me think that I could talk. Yes, that must be it. It sensed that I desired to be cured and it faked a voice, it tried to make me think I was cured, it tried to trick me. Of course it did, that's what they do, they're demons, they trick people.

Yet, through the jumbled memory of the nightmare, Anders could distinctly recall the feeling of fear, tight fear, and not just from himself. ' _Don't touch me!_ ' a voice screamed. Anders shivered, pulling the blanket around himself tighter and trying to build even a fraction of the warmth which he had lost when he had fallen from the couch. Just a nightmare, he thought as he tried to fall back to sleep, swallowing down his worry even as the memories of the dream faded away, becoming less and less distinct. Just a nightmare, like all the others.

* * *

It had been bad before, sneaking from his warm bed with his lover at his side, to sleep in the cold spare room with only the cat as company. Now, with the main spare room occupied, Anders was finding sleep even more miserable as he was passing most nights on the surprisingly comfortable and yet freezing couch in the sitting room. Yes, he told himself over and over again, there was more than one spare room in Hawke's mansion, many in fact, but Anders refused point blank to sleep anywhere near their...house guest, or so Anders called Sebastian Vael when he was feeling generous.

The rest of the time he just called him níðingr, an Anderfellian insult he had loved to throw at other apprentices in the Ferelden Circle. This was mainly because they didn't know he was calling them lowest form of scum right to their faces and thus allowed him to get away with quite a lot. He wasn't sure if Sebastian Vael understood Anderfellian but, being a _prince_ , Anders was sure that the rich idiot must have received some education at least. It was almost a disappointment that he could not voice his insult aloud, Anders sometimes thought, just to test his theory. Of course Hawke would have killed him if Sebastian ever found out just what Anders thought of him but then Anders was quite sure that, despite never having said a word to the man, Vael understood _exactly_ what Anders thought of him. If he didn't then the mage was sure the Starkhaven princeling must be the most dull witted man on earth.

So, the other spare rooms were out of the question. The thought of waking up Vael and having him knocking on his door, asking if he was alright, demanding he keep down his screams, or whatever the man would have said; Anders was in no mood to be curious about how the man would react to Anders' nightly terrors. He had enough troubles without mistakenly setting the man on fire in a fit of post-nightmare fright. He was quite sure Hawke wouldn't appreciate that, and Anders couldn't guarantee that he would be able to control himself, especially where Vael was concerned. So...the sitting room it was, which was unfortunate; and for how long he wasn't exactly sure, which was also unfortunate.

"I promise you," Hawke would say every night as they curled up against each other in bed, "it's only for another night."

Sebastian Vael had been violating their house with his presence for five days which, in Anders book, was five days too long. A harsh judgement, it would seem to an untrained eye. The man seemed relatively harmless on the surface, arrogant yes, supercilious yes, but mainly harmless. Until you looked closer and, on every occasion he got, Anders looked closer. Being unable to join in conversations allowed you a lot of time to observe, and Anders did not like what he saw.

Anders was not conceited enough to pretend that he knew how rich people acted, as a rule. Having lived in the Circle for most of his life, before which he had stayed in a back end of nowhere village in the Anderfells, he had little contact with nobility. The few fleeting glimpses he had caught before coming to Kirkwall had been through very brief visits to Vigil's Keep by either nobles from the Ferelden court or visits by Orlesian Wardens, most of which he guessed weren't nobles by birth but had certainly acted like it. Even since moving to Kirkwall where there seemed to be an overabundance of rich idiots, Anders had barely come into contact with any of them, even through his connection to Hawke. Thus he was given a very small and unreliable frame of reference with which to analyse Vael. Thankfully this did not hinder his ability to pick out the man's conniving personality, no matter how subtle he was about it.

"Have you ever considered it from the other side? The Chantry, I mean?" Anders had overheard Vael saying only the day before, as he walked past the doorway to Hawke's study.

It had caused him to pause mainly because he didn't trust anything Vael had been saying to Hawke ever since his sudden appearance at the start of that week, and partly because the statement was so unconscionably _wrong_. Was a relative stranger, no matter how interesting Hawke seemed to find him or how much the rouge felt it was his duty to help both the princeling and the Grand Cleric, seriously asking _Garret Hawke_ of all people to consider the plight of the fucking templars?

Words failed him. Literally. He couldn't even think for a moment from the sheer absurdity of the question. He was thankful that Hawke's rather subtly caustic reply was enough to at least enough to bring him out of his stupor as he stood, tea cup in hand, outside of the doorway. The next comment, however, finally sparked the answer which had been eluding him ever since he had met Vael briefly in Val Chevin.

"You may brush it off with sarcasm, serrah, but I suggest that you take some time to consider it," Vael had said in a sickeningly reasonable tone, "sometimes it isn't as easy to be so disparaging when you have."

From that moment Anders knew exactly what he was dealing with. Sebastian Vael was what Anders liked to call a Planter. It was an absurdly easy technique and yet it took the right kind of person to pull it off with any conviction and grace, enough to fool even the most intelligent argument. The planter, as far as Anders could define it, was the sort of person who used the mind of their opponent against them. They felt no need to argue their case because they knew that brute force could never defeat someone who believed in a cause as strongly as someone such as Hawke obviously did. Therefore he did the next best thing; he planted the seed of doubt in his mind. Think more on this subject, Vael had said as he left Hawke, think more on it; and so Hawke would, it would be irresistible for the man not to. Of course he would think about it, Hawke would arrogantly be assuming that he could think on Vael's arguments and pull them apart with ease...of course this was the downfall of the prey. Either way, Hawke would be _thinking_ about it, and Anders didn't trust that because the next step of the Planter was to give their prey a few days to mull on the subject they had talked about before bringing it up again, only this time making their argument sound oh so reasonable while explaining away any small doubts or counter-arguments the prey had thought up in the interim.

Also, on a further more worrying note, Anders had already cast his mind back to his first encounter with Vael in Val Chevin. On the last night there, Hawke's words, his disparagement of Anders' seemingly too arrogant and angry reaction to the prince, Hawke's plea for Anders to just take a moment to see things from the Chantry priests side. The thought made him shiver with disgust, knowing that, no matter how stalwart Hawke was, a man such as Vael was cunning enough to break past nearly anyone's shields, mainly because of one irrefutable thing. He believed what he was saying, Vael _believed_ wholeheartedly in the Chantry's teachings; and that, as far as Anders was concerned, made him the most dangerous type of zealot.

Basically, Anders didn't trust Sebastian Vael further than he could throw him, which wasn't very bloody far at all. The thought of leaving the two of them alone had become a growing unease in his already exhausted mind, only further compounding his problems. Which, at that moment, were as bountiful as they ever were and yet for far different reasons than they used to be. Fenris had always been a worry and a nuisance in his life and, right at that moment, he was still exactly that. 

The elf was, as far as he could tell, a simple enigma, to juxtapose his meanings. Fenris had been fairly open with his feelings towards the mage ever since they had met. Of course things had changed, slowly but surely, and now Anders was glad if he could have at least a civil conversation with him, even if he knew that, at the core of his ethos, Fenris was still squarely against magic users. Yet, despite this, their tentative camaraderie was what he considered progress. Being asked for help, however, especially on a matter which Fenris seemed to hold incredibly dear, was a big leap. Anders had been far too distracted by thinking of Callum and his unanswered questions, of the danger and logistics of helping Fenris and even the simple dilemma of keeping such a tryst from Hawke, to even fully consider the ramifications of Fenris's asking him for help at all. It had been the next morning, when he awoke in a foul mood and slunk downstairs to light the fire and set the kettle to boil, that he had taken the time to think things over. It was then that he realised the significance of what he had agreed to do.

Of course, being Fenris, the elf also had to be a problem. Even though Anders would have loved to spend as much time with the elf as possible, learning all there was to know about the magister, just in case an encounter occurred...Fenris was nowhere to be found. Since the early morning when he had asked Anders for the favour the mage had seen hide nor hair of him. He had inquired with Varric, which had earned him a rather inquisitive look even as the dwarf had shaken his head and said that he hadn't seen Fenris in days. Merrill and Isabella had given him similar answers, and Anders had known well enough than to ask Hawke. Not only would it raise further suspicion but Anders was sure that Fenris was still angry enough with the rogue _not_ to contact him. If there was anyone out there with the ability to hold a grudge longer than Hawke then it was surely Fenris. Even visiting his mansion had earned Anders nothing but empty silence as the soft sound of a bell chimed within the empty house. He had peered through the window, into the darkness within and, as he looked past his own reflection, had been almost sure that he a small figure run past the open doorway beyond the hall. For some reason, which he could not explain, the sight had caused him to leap back from the window, his heart racing with fright. Memories of years before when he and Cousland had visited Fenris, the small child's face appearing at the window...

Coincidence, Anders had thought as he had made his way back to the mansion. In a way Fenris's absence was entirely unnerving but, the more he thought about it, he was sure that Fenris knew how to take care of himself and Anders was almost completely sure that the elf would not have been idiotic enough to try and meet his sister on his own. Varric would have known if something like that had happened.

I really should be more concerned, he had thought as he sat and watched the lazy yellow flames lick at the heavy, cast iron kettle, only half awake with the morning chill biting at his hands and face. He would do it, of course he would do it, Fenris had obviously reached the end of his tether if he was asking Anders for help, the mage was not far gone enough to know that he would hardly have been the elf's first choice. Still, despite his want to help, the thought of what they could be up against began to plague his mind.

A Magister. He had never seen one before, as naive as that sounded, but it was apt, in a way, to talk of Magisters in the same way you would talk of trolls or High dragons. Magisters were people whom apprentices merely read about in books, or heard tell of in dark tales of blood magic, or were warned about by senior enchanters. Magisters were exotic and deadly, a dark to the light, a ruthless and power hungry set of beings; and, if Fenris's account was anything to go by, it sounded as if the tales he had heard as a teenager were mainly true. This allowed for Anders to have a rather mixed and confusing set of feelings at the thought of encountering one.

The first was fear, mainly because it seemed sensible. Anders remembered Orden and the terrible blood spells he had wielded with ease, and Orden, when it came down to it, was surely a simple amateur in comparison to a true Magister. Hadriana had been nothing more than Denarius's apprentice and she had been a formidable opponent, considering she had been fighting one on four. Even Alesis, cowardly snake that he had been, was cunning enough to wield his blood magic and his ability to summon scores of loyal demons and shades to his advantage, making him a dangerous foe in the wrong situation. To think of someone who would surely have the abilities of all the enemies he had previously face and, perhaps, even more, was definitely enough to make him take a deep breath and truly consider things.

The second was, guiltily, curiosity. Again, Magisters were exotic fairy tales, they were, in essence, mages from a society governed by mages. This was a glimpse into the sort of power and knowledge one could acquire when there was no Chantry and no templars to keep the mage population timid and incarcerated. However, despite his sudden urge to see this Denarius, the thought of this power hungry, cruel bastard being the sort of man a society like that produced was not entirely encouraging. Isn't this the same sort of society that I want to build, Anders felt the question nagging at the back of his mind. No, no that's not true, he tried to counter, I don't want mages to rule, I don't want to replace the despotism of the Chantry with _more_ tyranny. I want us to live together, I want us to be equal. Somehow, when juxtaposed to his previous thought, his liberal agenda seemed very naive and hopeful. So, for lack of a better argument and to stop himself feeling even more distressed, Anders had decided to stop thinking about it altogether.

Maker's breath, Anders thought as he had rubbed at his face and stood up to make a pot of strong tea, if I survive this Hawke is surely going to murder me.

Focus, he had told himself, there's plenty of time to work out your social dilemmas _after_ you haven't been blown apart by the angry Magister. Of course that was easier said than done, and when Anders wasn't thinking about his political dilemmas, he was obsessing over his own ability to even affect the changes he wished to put into place.

* * *

It wasn't just the darkness. Darkness was already a problem; it closed in around him like whispering arms, clutching at his mind. Fear and capture and prison and capture and fear. Memories of a claustrophobic cell, the outline of the hewn stone walls in wan moonlight, the sound of footsteps patrolling the corridors beyond the heavy, riveted doorway.

Yet it wasn't just the darkness. Not really. The similarities between the high tower cell in the Circle and the dank, black basement of the archives were rather haunting and yet that wasn't it.

No. It was the _feeling_ of the place. His mind was cast back to the rather skin itching encounters he'd had when visiting Fenris's mansion, the feeling of eyes boring into your back, small, indistinct whispering in the darker corners.

You would think I would be used to this shit, Anders thought as he slinked between the towering stacks of books and scrolls drifting off into the distance above his head. The small orb of light he had summoned to show his way bobbed around him like a hyperactive firefly. Anders had hated to summon it at all, far too worried that some wandering eye would catch sight of a stray beam of light, but he was given little choice considering the pitch blackness that surrounded him. Maybe it's just paranoia, he thought as he pulled out the dirty, roughly sketched directions written on the scrap of parchment he had been given, consulting them briefly, or maybe it really is just some hideous Fade spirit watching me. I wouldn't be bloody surprised.

It had seemed to him, earlier that day as he had sat, quiet and entirely introspective beneath a wind ruffled, stunted tree on the coast, that conviction was a very difficult concept to pin down. Not that the thought had come out of nowhere, no, it had been the culmination of a very long and rather down-spirited meandering as he had made his way to the coast, keeping his hood low as he passed the guardsmen at the gate. The man he was to contact had specifically requested that they meet outside of the city and, considering how very illegal the information he wanted was, Anders hadn't begrudged his contact that slight request.

Only it had given him time to think and, well, recently that had been a rather uncomfortable thing to do, mainly because he would do exactly what he always did; worry. To cut a long story short, his thoughts had followed this very lateral pattern since waking: tired, grey clouds beyond the window, stilted mood, feeding the cat, missing the feel of fur beneath his fingertips, missing Hawke, needing more sleep, hating rain against his face as he left the house, knowing what he needed to do that day but hating that too, hating deception, hating feeling so alone, hating that he _missed_ the one thing he'd tried to control and be masterful of all these years...missing Justice.

When he had finally noticed just where his mind had wondered, it was then that he realised perhaps why there was so much hatred and sadness lurking in his subconscious.

Conviction. Losing Justice had not been as simple by any stretch of the imagination. Thinking back on the very moment he had discovered that he was once again _whole_ , was also the moment he had discovered he had lost the other half of himself. It was an odd and jumbled memory, tainted by the hideousness of corpses beneath his fingers and mocking laughter ringing in his ears. Yet Justice's face, so serene and yet familiar, his disturbingly amber eyes staring down onto him, backed by a pitch sky...it was also, somehow, very wrong.

I should be happy, Anders had thought as he sat up, hearing his contact approaching, shouldn't I? Alesis' plan to steal Justice for himself, to gain the power of the Fade through their joining, had been foiled; for Anders and Justice it had been a breaking of a now defunct pact. Part of the reason Anders had even agreed to host Justice's spirit had been through a want to help his friend who, without a body, would perhaps have simply faded away into nothingness out with the ethereal plane. That Justice had been given the chance to return to the Fade, that Anders was now himself again, that...that should be a good thing. Shouldn't it?

Yet now, as he stood in the dank darkness of the archives, examining the directions he had been given, he felt the lack in himself. He felt the hole in his plan, beginning to unravel the further and further he pulled at it. No conviction, he thought rather bitterly. Justice had conviction, the spirit had always had a fanatical and sometimes terrible sense of conviction; the mages would be free because it was just. The spirit had needed no more than that.

Anders, on the other hand, could clearly remember his attitude towards his own plight before Justice and he had merged. Apathy wasn't quite the right word to use, perhaps a casual sort of fear was more truthful. He knew better than anyone what it was to be oppressed, what it was to be punished, what it was to be hated just for what you were, and yet it had never occurred to him that he could be the one to make a difference. He could be a part of the solution to hundreds of years of templar dominance over mages.

If someone had said that to his twenty year old self he would have told them to shove off and go wind up someone else; or perhaps that they had the wrong man. Yet now, here, he was still determined to see through his plans, still determined to see Meredith and her regime fall, still determined to build a world where he and Hawke and Bethany could have a normal family together.

However, no matter his determination, he lacked the fervour which Justice brought. Justice knew he was right because he believed it. Justice did not have doubts, Justice did not fear his path. Anders had doubts, a lot of doubts, and he had a conscience which assaulted him any time he did something remotely morally ambiguous. He could procrastinate all day about the where's and the why-for's but, in the end, it was a simple and yet final conclusion.

Justice knew what he was doing was right, no matter what, he had conviction. Anders was determined to see it through and yet...

The fact that there was even an 'and yet' in his thoughts at all said everything. Anders wasn't proud of the fact that he wasn't as stalwart and single-minded as Justice was, but then he would console himself with the knowledge that he was, in the end, only human. There was only so much heroic sacrifice and guiltless slaughtering he could do before his own id caught up with him and showed him just what it meant to have such strong...conviction.

The directions led him to the right, past a tall _something_ which loomed above him, hidden beneath a dark swathe of cloth. Anders looked up at the vaguely human shape hidden beneath the hanging material, feeling the need to edge away as he passed it. As soon as it was passed, once more came the feeling of the eyes, _watching_. Anders refused, point-blank, to turn around. It was all in his mind, he thought, he just had to ignore it and the feeling would leave him. Or so he hoped.

Of course Anders had more than enough to distract him; if he were to be honest his current errand was even a tangent from his mission, or so Justice had liked to call it. Yet even just the people, his friends and comrades, created more than enough for him to deal with. Having been isolated with only Hawke and Callum for company over the past months, the sudden resurgence of _people_ , with their wants and demands and problems and such, was a little overwhelming at first. He had friends which, in itself, was a chore. I hate to think of it like that, Anders thought a little guiltily, but sometimes I suppose I have to be truthful with myself. It wasn't that he didn't love his friends, far from it, he cherished them the way any mage cherished amity given freely, but sometimes...

Alright, he thought, when it comes down to it I'm largely used to being on my own. I suppose that's true. Even when I was young I was never inclined to play with others or seek out attention. In the Circle I had _friends_ , of a sort, but Karl was the only person who ever truly cared enough to stick with me despite my rather stand-offish behaviour. Oh I can act friendly, of course, that's easy and I do it well. It's just...it's just a deep seated rule, I suppose, he thought as he bumped lightly into a pile of wooden shelves being stored haphazardly at the end of an isle, that mages try their best not to become attached to anything. It's easier that way. Which is why, when I do get attached, it's just the opposite of easy; it's complicated and incredibly dangerous.

Hawke was a good example of that, as was Karl; and now...so was Callum. The big fool, Anders thought with three parts annoyance and one part affection. Hawke was, to his everlasting indignity, the love of his life. Anders was no longer scared to admit that, however often he was forced to question it. He knew this not because of some sudden epiphany or love at first sight or because of a feeling...it wasn't as abstract as that. Love, as a mage, was practical and impractical simultaneously. Anders loved Hawke because he knew that Hawke was dependable, kind, good-hearted and because Hawke could put up with a rather large amount of Anders' shit, to put it kindly. Karl had been the same, except to a lesser degree. They had never been truly as close as Anders would have wished for them, mainly because their own viewpoints on how mages should be allowed to exist in this world was inherently divided.

Hawke on the other hand...well, despite how it looked, he and Anders agreed on most things. Yes they fought and argued but it was mainly about small, trivial things. If there was a discussion about something monumental then, generally, they fell down on the same side. Not to say that they didn't have their problems, Anders could personally attest to the fact that love was not worth the effort sometimes simply because of he and Hawke's... _disagreements_. Hatred was, as far was Anders was concerned, part and parcel of he and Hawke's relationship. It was built in to who they were. Anders was scared to lose what he had and yet unwilling to compromise his own views and feelings; as far as he could tell, Hawke was the same. There-in lay the root of their problems, and yet at the same time the strength of their bond.

Then there was Callum Crummock. There's always something, isn't there, Anders thought grimly. In truth Anders had truly had enough of thinking about the other man, not because he was fed up of him exactly but more because it was an exercise in futility. Callum was...well, he was just about _perfect_. It grates to think it, Anders thought as he turned sneakily into a drafty, low-ceilinged tunnel and continued into another large, gloomy basement room. If Anders had even dreamed of having a romance in his adolescence, flipping through the entirely clichéd and well read romance novels, few that there were in the library, then Callum was the perfect fit for the person he had always imagined. Foolish, he knew, but it was true. Someone to run away with, someone who was carefree and full of life, someone who was willing to take him for what he was, faults and all. Someone he could talk to without feeling like a freak of nature. Callum was that man, the understanding, handsome stranger who had decided that being pulled into Anders' life was a wonderful idea, instead of running away screaming like any normal man would have.

Except for Hawke, Anders' conscience supplied with a guilty stab. Well, yes, Anders thought with a swallow, breathing in the damp air and smelling the faint mildew and mould spores in the air. Of course only Hawke could aggravate Anders quite as much as Anders was able to aggravate Hawke; case in point, Sebastian Vael. The very thought made all triviality tumble away, all light hearted irritations fly to the wind, and gravity pulled everything down to earth. Of all the things, foolish and naive, that Hawke had ever done, Sebastian Vael was the very worst.

I won't think on it, Anders thought with a rough and yet angry sigh, hating the way any sound he made echoed long and loud throughout the cavernous halls. It's just...it's beyond words. He did not miss the irony in this thought; he smirked derisively. Perhaps I should focus more on the task at hand.

He crumpled the paper in his hand and summoned the small orb of light closer to his head as he knelt down next to the large, stone-wrought shelves, carved into the very walls themselves. It's not important, Anders thought as he stared at the large, dusty, crumpled tomes before him, even though he knew the lie in his own words. At that moment all he could bring himself to focus on were the large runes gilding the spines of the books before him, shining golden in the orb light. I'm just glad I studied runes under Wynne, Anders joked hollowly to himself as the freezing stone floor seeped in though his trousers and made his shins grow cold.

The runes weren't simply _runes_ , that was the first obstacle. They were ancient Frakish runes, from a people who had once dominated the whole of southern Thedas. Their blood thirsty nature and excellent sea faring abilities had allowed them to rule with an iron fist, while their interest in intellectual studies and, especially, the workings of the Fade made them highly formidable. They were, in fact, thought to be the forefathers of the Tevinter Imperium. Of course, being experts on Fade lore, Anders knew that if there were to be any answers found, then the seminal work of Yallda Heman, the little celebrated Frakish author and mystic, would surely lead him to enlightenment.

Still, the runes were only vaguely understandable. Anders scanned the titles with squinted eyes, trying to recognise something, even vaguely. There were many similarities, it seemed, with Gaudan and Old Ferelden runes, both of which he had studied at the Circle, and so the meanings of the titles were somewhat recognisable. Yet it was still a struggle to understand the translations. Thankfully the title he was searching for was a word which dominated all cultures and, being a core ancient language, all stems seemed to spawn from this one word.

 _Fjandi_. Anders ran his fingertips lightly over the runes and the solid bindings of the spine. The book of demons, Anders thought with stilted breath, so it is true! To think a book such as this is rotting in a damp basement is beyond me. He would be the first to admit that, when his contact had told him just what helpful text he could help Anders acquire, Anders had been the first to scoff in disbelief.

"I can give you the book of demons," the man had said, his mouth muffled by the heavy black scarf while his eyes shifted disconcertingly about in a paranoid manner.

Anders had known straight away what he meant. Of course Callum had also recognised the King's Tongue translation of the famous title; there weren't many mages who wouldn't have heard of such an infamous text, one way or another.

"You can...what?" Callum had said, hesitating, "don't be ridiculous, are you talking of the _Fjandi_? I thought you said you could bring us something useful, not some myth about..."

"You are too quick to doubt," the man had snapped back, his piercing brown eyes narrowing briefly upon Anders before they continued their frantic watching of the sunny, leaf blown, deserted road; Anders had found himself on edge, although whether it was from the bizarreness of the man's actions or his blank stare, Anders wasn't sure, "Kirkwall is rich in Tevinter lore, everyone knows it, but that isn't all that's locked beneath the ground. Do you think that the Chantry would destroy something that they could find so valuable?"

Anders had frowned darkly. The man's words were a little disquieting. He had looked to Callum, finding a similarly questioning look upon the tall man's face.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Callum had asked gruffly.

The man had simply turned sharply to look behind him, making Anders flinch. Callum had looked in the same direction as the man had stared, somewhat intense, but had later told Anders that he could see nothing. When the man turned back to them he had seemed even more jittery.

"You're friend is awful quiet," he had said accusingly to Callum, even as his eyes had swept over Anders.

"He's a man of few words," Callum said back blithely, "now are you going to give us the location of this mythic text or not?"

It was at times like those, despite the confusion, ambiguity and longing that Callum caused in him, that Anders was truly grateful for having met the rangy man. His way with words was rather priceless.

The books that sat before him were of the sort he had only heard referred to with reverence by other authors, most of which had never read or even seen the book themselves. It was a very rare and very powerful text, something which no other work on demons had ever tried to replicate. For other books would talk of demons, yes, but no other author had done as Yallda was famed to have done; visit the Fade itself to witness the demons first hand and then return in one piece to write his report. In fact, Anders thought, no one knows what happened to him. Some said that he may have been driven mad, some say he made a pact with one of the demons for unlimited knowledge and was punished for his hubris, some said that he was granted eternal life and is still living as a hermit deep in the Vimmark mountains. None of which is probably true, Anders thought as he began hefting the book from the shelf, I'm quite sure he died like any other normal man. Ah how we humans love to make fantastic rumours about ancient things.

Second obstacle; they were heavy. Anders managed to drag the book to the ground, creating an echoing thump which had the mage darting his eyes around to pry through the gloom, listening for the sounds of footsteps or voices. None came, which allowed Anders' heart rate to slow back to its natural pace, yet the problem still remained. The book was incredibly heavy and large. Why, oh why couldn't it be a _brief_ history of demons, Anders thought as he pulled the roughly sewn rucksack off of his back and began shimmying the thick material underneath the book itself.

The trip home was, in stark contrast to the darkness, blindingly bright. The early morning sun sent the cloudy sky into a blanket of pearlescent grey, harsh on eyes only accustomed to the darkness of night or the windowless pitch of the archives. Anders squinted as he sneaked out through the previously unlocked door and hefted the leather straps up more comfortably on his shoulders. The guard, slumped in the corner by the door, was still as soundly asleep as Anders had left him and his guard, in the shadowy shape of Callum, was still just visible around the corner. Thankfully the city archives were not a top priority for the City Guard, it seemed. This was his third trip into the dank basement to root through the forgotten books kept there. He smiled softly and knelt down to replace the stolen key onto the guard's belt. No need for him to be reprimanded further, Anders thought as he stood with difficulty and turned towards home.

"You found what you came for then?" Callum asked as he rounded the corner, still casting his eyes about for anyone he may have missed, although the streets were as dead as a crypt at that hour.

Anders nodded and reached back to pat at the bulging, hefty weight in his backpack.

"Well, they sure knew how to make them back then, eh?" Callum joked, making Anders roll his eyes, "Do you want me to carry it? It looks heavy."

A swift shake of the head was enough to make the taller man smile and shrug, falling into step with Anders as the smaller mage started off toward the Mansion District. It had been rather awkward, being with Callum recently. Not that there hadn't _always_ been a subtle undercurrent of tension between them both but ever since Callum had left his question unasked on the early morning when Fenris had asked him for help, well, it had niggled at the back of Anders' mind, along with all the other problems rolling around in there. I wonder what it was he was going to ask? Anders would keep asking himself when he managed to find time to spare it a thought. He had considered taking the simplistic route and simply asking the man with a simple written sentence...but then, every time, he would stop himself.

Callum had looked rather serious that morning, brooding almost. Somehow that only made Anders more nervous. What could possibly be so important that even Callum, the master of being unsubtle and blunt, would hesitate before asking? Of course that only made Anders begin to wonder exactly what that could be and worry himself with his own made-up answers. Was it about their relationship again, not that the word relationship even remotely classified what they had between them; was he going to ask if he could move into the mansion so as to get away from the indentured charity of the Hanged Man? Because, with Vael staying there too, the thought was almost unbearable; and, of course, the worst thought:

That he was thinking of leaving Kirkwall, and that he was going to ask Anders to go with him.

It was the most common of his musings, mainly because he knew that Callum disliked the City greatly, he had said so on many occasions since the start of his stay, and also because he knew that Callum loved nothing more than to roam the country endlessly, moving from town to town as a free man with his dog for company. Last, but not least, because he knew that Callum was still quite intent on him, even if he was very subtle in his glances and his tone. Anders knew because it was hard to ignore when you were tempted by the sheer thought of it.

Another thought which he had cut off as soon as it started to form in his mind, allowing the tension to raise just a fraction more as he and Callum walked home in companionable silence. They went their separate ways when they entered the market district, Callum heading back to The Hanged Man while Anders hurried home, trying to ignore the thick leather straps digging into his shoulders. The mansion seemed just as desolate as the streets beyond its door, silent as the grave. Anders hurried up the stairs and sneaked quietly into the study before locking the door.

Now, Anders thought as he managed, with great effort, to unload the tome on the table, obstacle three; if only I knew someone who could translate ancient Frakish.

* * *

And why demons, you may ask? Anders had asked himself the same question a thousand times before he had finally caved in and sought out the only way forward he could think of.

That if he could not find any trace of either the unusual malady which affected him _or_ the horrifying apparition which had, as far as he could tell, bereft him of voice...then perhaps the answer lay in the Fade. The realm of demons, to be precise.

Because something was haunting his thoughts, his dreams, his very mind was alive with the thoughts of teeth and eyes and...he didn't want to think about it and yet he couldn't stop. He had never know that death could be so very frightening. It seemed foolish to think it and yet, before, in his darkest moments, he had envisaged it as some sort of _release_. An escape from the horror and pain of living. Now his fantasy was, perhaps thankfully, tainted. His loss of voice was only an outward symptom of his inner turmoil and, as far as Anders could tell, he had no idea what or why or how this had happened. Was it a curse, was it a punishment? Anders, in his desperation, had even begun to wonder if it was a side effect of his having been, effectively, _dead_ for over a week. Also not something he wanted to think about.

So, having not exactly exhausted his options but, at the same time, become desperate enough to begin looking elsewhere, he had ended up with demons. Partly because it seemed like something a Fade demon would do just because it could, especially if some puny mortal felt the need to mess in its domain, and partly because he had no other clue as to what could be causing it.

Anders himself was becoming begrudgingly used to scribbling everything down for those who could read it or, alternatively, trying his best to mime his speech if he was unlucky enough to not have Callum at hand, which was not very often. When the taller mage was there things tended to go rather smoothly, however, when he was absent the true nature of his situation tended to rear its ugly head. Even speaking to Varric, someone he considered a close friend, was something he found difficult to do without the aid of paper.

"So, even after all the rigmarole of traveling thousands of miles and battling blood mages and templars," the dwarf had said as he sat in Anders' clinic a few evenings prior, his elbows upon the table and his chin cradled in his hands, "you're still holed up here treating the sick and wounded as if nothing happened at all, eh?"

To say that Anders had resented the cheerful and flippant tone Varric had used to address such a sensitive subject would be an understatement, yet thankfully he knew that was simply the dwarf's way. Anders had been busy making soap as they talked and, thus, had his hands full and was unable to write. All he was left to do, as he churned the thickening lye in the iron tub with a wide, sturdy palate knife, was shrug. Somehow it managed to match the very tone Varric had used which, Anders had assumed, was what caused the dwarf to grin.

"Who would have thought that an action really could speak a thousand words," Varric had said with a laugh, "you really are getting used to this, aren't you?"

Anders felt like telling Varric to piss off and stop being such a untactful prick, but instead could do nothing but sigh heavily and ignore it. The palate knife slid thickly through the lye and oil mixture, the substance solidifying to the point that it was almost impossible to even move the utensil at all. He laid it aside and moved back to the second batch he had begun preparing, adding further hot water to the wood ashes swimming in the wickerwork sieve.

Become used to it...yes, as he had thought before he had, in a way, become used to the routine of dealing with his disability but, in the long run, there was no way he could ever say he was _used_ to it. Not by a long, long, _long_ shot. The main thought that kept Anders going, as he scribbled down his words and tried his best to communicate, was that this was simply temporary. He would be rid of this soon, he would find out what was ailing him and he would deal with it. That was the thought that kept him going, not the thought of having become used to this in any way.

"I heard about the exile," Varric had continued as Anders pulled on a pair of rough, badly worn leather gloves and began preparing the now ready to use soap, "still staying at Hawke's mansion I take it?"

You know he is, Anders thought dourly, so why even ask. He refused to amuse the thought that Varric would be even a second behind on that story. The dwarf was far too well informed and far too nosy not to be. He still nodded, however, just to seem at least polite, as he picked up a large carving knife and began digging into the pale, waxy mess, carving it into misshapen chunks.

"Hmm," Varric had replied cryptically and entirely non-committal, "you would think he'd find somewhere else to stay."

I _wish_ , Anders thought, pulling out the chunks with a jerkiness bred of frustration and placing them into a small wicker basked lined with a stained piece of cloth. He had suggested to Hawke on numerous occasions that Vael could surely find accommodation at the Chantry itself but, each time, he was told that there wasn't a single room available, which was why Elthina had asked Hawke for help in the first place. Cunning old bat, Anders thought sourly, I'm sure she thinks she's oh so clever. It wouldn't surprise me if she was simply trying to convert Hawke to the law of the Maker by sending someone like Vael into his house; into _our_ house, Anders had corrected himself. The thought made him sigh once more as he picked up the now full basket and walked to the table, placing it down next to Varric. Since when had he needed to remind himself of _that_?

"More filthy denizens of Darktown to clean?" Varric had asked as he picked up a lump of soap from the basket and gave it a quick sniff; it was a subtle change of conversation and yet, for Anders, a welcome diversion from his thoughts.

The mage had nodded as he looked down at the basket. It was an encouraging thought that something as simple and crude as the soap he made was enough to stave off countless diseases for those in Darktown who could barely afford to feed their children, never mind the luxury of soap. Yet, at the same time, it was also a depressing one, to think that something as simple as his soap could do so much good and yet was only obtainable through charity.

This city is rotten, Anders thought sadly as he and Varric handed out the lumps of medicinal smelling, soft soap to eager hands. That has not changed, not one bit, in fact it has only become worse. Why had the thought of Callum's phantasmal proposal of eloping been so very tempting? Anders knew why, he knew all too well why. Kirkwall was a filthy, rotting sore upon the landscape, a blight ignored by those in it and those around it, all because of the sheen of normalcy that was draped over the top, only thinly veiling the corruption beneath. The thought of leaving that, of finding somewhere quiet, somewhere away from the world, away from the people and the templars and the mages and the Chantry and the politics and the Wardens and _everyone_...

...he would not say that it wasn't tempting, and yet it still was not an option that he would ever choose. As cancerous as the city had become, or perhaps even was when he arrived, it had become somewhere that he at least felt appreciated. He had a home here, he had a life. The people of Darktown accepted him, to an extent, they did not shun him they _relied_ upon him, and he in return felt an incredible amount of satisfaction knowing that he had at least made a difference in the lives of people who no one else was going to give two shits about; and the mages, the mages needed his help and they were his friends, he cared about them. They were a symbol of everything he had always hoped for as a child, the enthusiasm and perseverance that he had lost slowly as he had grown, stunted, within the Chantry's clutches.

Kirkwall may have been the last place in Thedas he would ever have considered, somewhere he was driven by force, by circumstance and for a reason which no longer truly applied, but in the end this was his city now, he relied upon it as much as it relied upon him.

Perhaps, he thought as he handed a lump of soap to a small, grinning girl, her face rough with dirt but her eyes bright as gemstones as she regarded her present, that is all the conviction I truly need.


	6. Taken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note to say that this chapter jumps back and forwards in time, each time split separated with a line. I have labelled the first few times this happen with italics explaining when this takes place in relation to the previous segment, however I stop labeling it as the two timelines draw closer together.

The man wouldn't stop screaming. Anders' mind was rushing, his heart thudding, his eyes darting around the empty square as he tried his best to haul the heavy, yelling man towards the alleyway behind him. Maker make him stop, Anders thought, make him be _quiet_! His limbs ached and his heart strained in his chest. Dragging the man was hard enough, but with one hand it was far more difficult; just one look at his right hand, the fingers bent and bloodied, and his forearm split and rent, made Anders' stomach turn.

His left hand slipped on the heavy, brocaded, blood slicked coat of the wriggling, injured man as he dragged him, sending Anders' sprawling from lack of balance. The amount of effort just to get back onto his feet was immense, making his head swim. Get up, he shouted at himself, get _up_!

He dragged himself forwards, adrenaline alone fuelling his movements. He hauled the man with him, the pace of their progress sickeningly slow. They're going to find us, Anders thought in a panic, they'll find us and then they'll be no chance of getting him back! For fuck's sake, he thought as he grit his teeth and let go of him once more, limped slowly around the man sprawled on the floor, bleeding onto the pale stone, shut up you worthless fuck! Somehow, Anders would never know quite how, he managed to pull himself and the man into the alleyway, continuing until they were deep enough into the shadows that they could not be seen.

Out of sight, he thought, shaking as the adrenaline began to wear off, as everything began flooding back in as if someone had broken the dam in his mind; the pain and the blood and the fear and the panic...

They'll hear, he thought as his breath sped up, staring down to the man at his feet as he continued to scream in pain and rant in words that Anders could barely understand. I can't let him die, not because of you, not like this! Shut your mouth you fucking blood mage!

Anders wished the adrenaline was still pumping through his system, giving him the ability to act and not think. Now, as his breath sped up and up even as his mind began to sink, he was all to conscious of pulling his right foot back, bracing his left hand on the wall and viciously kicking the man in the head. Once and the man's eyes opened wide as his head lolled, his mouth opening and closing slowly. Twice and his eyes rolled up, his pupils slinking out of sight until his eyelids closed and Anders was left shaking and staring and trying his best to think of a way out, a _way out_...

It was as he stumbled back out of the alleyway, barely able to stay conscious, that he realised his mistake. The templar regiment that was emptying into the square from the opposite side spotted him before he could even comprehend the idea of hiding. Anders lifted his hand instinctually, trying his best to pool the energy there, trying to call on his magic, but there was nothing left. The attempt only served to make his head swim and he stumbled and fell to one knee as the bright, shining, faceless templars rushed to surround him.

Anders stared down at the ground before him as he listened to them shouting orders to each other, the clinking of their armour. The pale stone before him was smeared with blood and evening light. His heartbeat jumped erratically, slowing to a sluggish pace. Anders stared at the feet, metal clad, pointed boots, which walked into view and knew that everything was over.

* * *

_The day before..._

"Well I don't know how you expect me to take it," Hawke said with consternation, "because I don't even know why you did it in the first place!"

Another argument started from nothing, Anders thought as he roughly replaced the book he had been looking through to its spot in the bookshelf, just like he and Hawke excelled at. Of course the library wasn't exactly the most private of places, of which Anders was well aware, and he would far rather of taken their fight elsewhere. Or, in fact, not done it at all; that was unfortunately not an option.

Anders grabbed up the thin piece of parchment and his stubby piece of charcoal and, leaning on one of the tables, scratched out his reply before throwing it juvenilely at Hawke. The man sighed harshly through his nose as the parchment drifted to the ground at his feet and bent over to pick it up. Anders didn't know why, and he wished it weren't so, but writing out his thoughts instead of speaking them always served to make him angrier. Writing down the fact somehow cemented it in reality a little further, made it a fact more than a throw away comment.

' _I_ _don't trust him_ ' Anders had written, because he _didn't_ trust the man they were both arguing about. In fact Sebastian Vael, from the moment he walked into their house, had been nothing but a poisonous snake as far as Anders was concerned. As a rule Anders generally had a hard time trusting anyone as it was; he had been a naive child, a slightly less naive teenager, a suspicious young man and now, after everything he had gone through to get to where he now was, he considered himself a particularly jaded adult. Of course I don't trust Sebastian bloody Vael, Anders wanted to shout at Hawke, I have trouble trusting the vegetable merchant in Lowtown not to rip me off for Maker's sake, never mind having a sworn Chantry Brother in our house!

He watched Hawke read it, watched with building anger as the man let out a derisive chuff of breath and shake his head as he looked away to the side. Well you fucking asked, Anders thought savagely as he made to storm out of the room past Hawke, who was a forbidding figure as he stood a few feet from the door to the living area.

"Don't you storm out on me," Hawke said tightly as Anders passed, reaching out to grab the mage tightly around the upper arm; Anders struggled briefly but Hawke's grip was incredibly strong and the other man didn't seem interested in Anders' own anger, "I asked one thing of you, _one thing_ , and so far all you can do is make me look like a fool!"

One thing, one thing which was obviously so small and insignificant to Hawke and yet so overwhelmingly impossible to Anders.

Just be nice. That was what Hawke had asked. It sounded so reasonable that it was practically sickening to think of. Be nice? Be pleasant? To the man who was obviously trying to corrupt his home from the inside out like a cuckoo in the nest? Anders barely found himself capable of ignoring Vael's presence, never mind being courteous to him in any way. He was the worst sort, as far as Anders was concerned, a pampered rich boy with a tragic past who obviously thought that the world revolved around him and his wants, that everyone must believe as he did, with that noxious, blind Chantry _belief_ that made Anders' stomach turn.

Anders stared into Hawke's eyes, livid with anger. He wished he could tell Hawke what was on his mind. That, if he would open his eyes for five seconds and look around him, the world wasn't as forgiving, trusting and naive as Hawke himself was; a fact that continued to baffle Anders to his core. Garret Hawke, considering everything they had been through together, witnessing the worst of life and the worst that people could do to each other, still seemed to feel the need to cling to his immature hope that people were as selfless and kind as he could be.

Anders knew that could be true, he knew that, rarely, you could stumble upon a genuine person who would give you their fealty from sheer magnanimity, but most of the time he was certain that people such as Vael were self-serving, cold bastards, looking only to help themselves however they could. Which is why Anders had decided to follow the man earlier that day, followed him for two hours hoping to catch him in the act of some shady deal or contact with Meredith or anything, _anything_ he could use to show Hawke that the man was a weasel of the first order.

However, the plan had backfired spectacularly. Anders had obviously thought himself far stealthier than he actually was and, after returning home cold, hungry, tired and angry after tailing Vael, it was to find that the cunning bastard had beat him back to the mansion, and also that he had known all along he was being followed and had felt the need to inform Hawke, which had seemed to amuse the rogue at first but, as their conversation had furthered, it had descended into the fight in which they were now embroiled.

The staring match held until, finally, Hawke covered his surrender by letting out a sound of disgust and shoving Anders brusquely away. The mage stumbled before reaching up to brush himself down. Hawke didn't spare him a glance. If all you're worried about is you're fucking reputation, Anders thought furiously as he strode purposefully to the door, then you can go to the Black and fuck yourself and take Sebastian Vael with you!

The door squealed on its hinges as he threw it open and, childishly, slammed it shut behind him. There was more to it than simply Vael, there was _always_ more, but Anders couldn't stand to discuss it. Hawke had always been irritating when it came to personal matters. In fact, as far as Anders could tell, Hawke had started to play things a little closer to his chest ever since they had begun living together. Before that it had been all smiles and openness and a feeling of reassurance. Now...now there was always the subconscious idea of Hawke hiding things from him, sitting in the back of his mind taunting him. Anders should know, he did it himself. So he knew, he knew that their problems were bigger than this foolish argument, compounded by underlying fear and resentment which neither seemed willing to admit...

...but that didn't stop him using the only outlet available with which to vent his pent up anger. It was only as Anders turned back to face the room, the fire burning brightly in the grate, that he noticed just who was standing a scant few feet in front of him.

Vael did not say a word but then he didn't need to. Anders could discern everything he needed to through his somewhat haughty and disdainful stare. It was there in the subtle crossing of his arms, the slight glint of something there in his eyes. Was it humour? Derision? Was it even there at all?

How can you be like this? A small part of his mind asked him. What on earth is the matter with you? Flying off the handle at the merest hint of conflict, can't you be rational? I don't think I ever have been, Anders thought. I should be able to see things clearly, I should be able to agree with Hawke even as I disagree with him. That Vael is just like those before him, just like those that I now call friends. Howe was just as he was, the spoiled, outcast boy with his father murdered, seeking revenge and disdainful to the core. Fenris was the same, oh he was worse in fact. Yet now here Anders was, helping the elf when Fenris told him he had nowhere else to turn.

Can't you give him the same chance? His conscience asked as Anders watched Vael begin to open his mouth to speak, his brow furrowed in what could have been confusion or worry, derision or contempt.

Perhaps he would have said something to redeem himself as Anders silently judged him or perhaps he would have condemned himself, but whichever it was it was never heard. His internal struggle was too far gone and Anders went for him without warning, taking the prince by surprise with a well placed and sold punch to the jaw which sent him stumbling to the ground. Anders practically leaped on him, pinning the prince to the ground with a knee on his chest while Anders laid another blow against his face, ignoring the hands that tried to grab at his arms and deflect the blows while Vael let out commands for him to stop.

It was difficult to ignore the other set of hands that came to Vael's rescue. Hawke's steely grip was around his shoulders and hauling him from the beaten man beneath him with little grace or kindness. Anders tripped over his own feet as he was pulled around and stumbled, catching himself against the banister. What he saw as he righted himself only made his blood boil faster; Hawke helping Vael to his feet, the smarmy princeling trying to act as if nothing was the matter, that everything was fine.

"Are you alright?" Hawke asked, holding Vael steady, "I'm so sorry..."

Fucking bastard, Anders thought as he saw red, walking towards Vael with murder in his eyes. How dare you, he thought irrationally of Hawke, don't you dare apologise for my actions! He deserves it, he deserves everything!

"Anders, stop! For the sake of the Maker!" Hawke gave him no chance to strike again, stepping between the livid mage and Vael and taking a hold of his shoulders; Anders watched the prince over Hawke's shoulder as he wiped the blood from his split lip, "What is wrong with you! Have you lost your mind?"

I want him out, Anders thought over and over again as he stared at Vael, I want him _out_ _of_ _my_ _house_! Get him out, Hawke, don't you dare side with him can't you see he's nothing but a viper? Why can't you see it! Anders gesticulated wildly as he ranted in his mind, pointing strictly at Vael and then pointed just as strictly at the front door. It was difficult to misinterpret his meaning.

"You need to calm down," Hawke said sternly, his green eyes dark under heavy brows, "and go upstairs."

Fuck you, Anders thought, his rage only fuelled by Hawke's conciliatory words, don't tell me what to do, and don't tell me to _calm_ _down_! You open our doors to this interloper, you tell me false promises, you let him talk of mages as if they were nothing but beasts to be locked up! What is wrong with you Hawke, how can you entertain this ludicrous show!

It was under his own volition, difficult as that was, that Anders jerked himself from Hawke's grip and departed. Not, as Hawke had demanded, upstairs but instead he headed out of the front door. He ignored the words that flew out after him, he ignored the chilling night air, clothed as he was in only a thick shirt and his soft, evening trousers, he ignored the dark shadows and the sounds of drunken loiterers. He walked on autopilot all the way to Lowtown and, somehow, luckily did not encounter any trouble. His luck also seemed to extend to his destination as he managed to arrive, freezing, out of breath and a little embarrassed, just as Nora was closing the outside shutters.

"Oh!" she said in surprise as she turned and found Anders standing right behind her, hugging himself for warmth, "well if it isn't Anders, you gave me the fright of me life! I'm afraid we're just closing up but...what on earth are you doing out dressed like that!"

Anders wondered, dazed as he was, how he could answer her. Thankfully there was no need as Nora took a moment to look down and observed Anders' lack of shoes.

"Bless me, you've no shoes on!" Nora looked dumbfounded, "I...well, just you get inside this instant before you catch your death of cold! Mr. Varric's asleep but that fella you've been speaking to, Mr. Crummock, he's still awake. Come on, in you get."

It was the last place he would have chosen for himself, in the state he was in, and yet his mind seemed to have deemed it the appropriate place to escape to. He allowed Nora to usher him inside, to sit him at one of the gloomy tables, the sconces extinguished and the main room dark. Only the flicker of dying firelight from Varric's suite filtered out to give an eerie, dreamlike quality to his surroundings. I shouldn't be here, he thought as he watched the chairs dance in the lambent light, I should be at home, I should be in bed, I should be kicking Sebastian Vael out on his rotten behind and shutting the door in his face. My life seems to be mainly composed of should-have's, Anders thought with a sigh.

It was difficult because it was Hawke, because, even though neither would admit it, staying together without acknowledging anything that had happened over the past few months was incredibly straining; it was difficult because it was his home and he didn't want to lose that again; it was difficult because he couldn't contain himself but, ironically, his lack of voice did a good job of containing him silently within his own mind. Fighting with Hawke had always been a terribly one sided affair as far as Anders was concerned but now, without a way to voice his anger, it was becoming ludicrous.

Most of all, however, it was hard because the anger that welled up in him now was something he wasn't truly sure how to deal with. It was such a simultaneously liberating and yet fearful thing to be, once more, the master of his own rage. Before this he would have simply blamed his outburst and sheer lack of thought on Justice and had done with it. Yet no more, no more could he pass off his rages to an unseen spirit. This was him, he was responsible, and there was something worrying about that. Is this what I was hoping for all this time? Anders thought as he heard bare feet on the floorboards approaching, that I would be freed of Justice only to be left like this, all impotent anger and silent rage? I should be at home, with Hawke...

...but instead he was here, chilled to the bone, and staring up at the looming figure of Callum Crummock in his nightclothes, half cast in shadow.

"Well, I _would_ say that this is the strangest thing I've seen you do," Callum said after a strong moment of silence, his voice laced with humour, "but then that would be a lie. Oh for the Maker's sake Nora was right, you don't have any bloody shoes on."

Anders sighed and shook his head. He was sure that if all the blood in his body hadn't been preoccupied with keeping him from dying of hypothermia, he would have blushed. When Callum reached down to help him up from the chair Anders grabbed his hand instinctually.

"Fuck me," Callum said, an involuntary shiver running up his arm, "you're freezing! What have you been doing running around outside like this? Were you...oh never mind, just come on. I have the fire going."

There was a terrible sense of irony, one that Anders really should have seen coming, in the room which Callum led him to. Anders had only ever seen Callum at the Hanged Man in Varric's suite while they drank or played cards or he just listened to the man talk. He had never been to his room, for obvious reasons, most of which involved temptation and avoiding it. So when Callum led him to the room, _the_ room, he was sure that it was proof there was a Maker; and that he had a terrible, cruel sense of humour.

"Just sit on the bed," Callum said, seeming to subconsciously and brusquely rub Anders upper arms, trying to bring some warmth back into them, "I'll heat some water, see if I can make some tea. I'm sure Nora has some leaves behind the bar, I don't think she'll notice if I pinch some."

The feeling of the bed beneath him was reminiscent of the night Hawke had lowered him to it, what felt like an eon ago now. The light was dim, emanating solely from a couple of stubby candles on the dresser and the jumping, wild firelight from the grate. The parallel of his visits to this room seemed rather apparent and misleadingly repetitive. Anders watched Callum faff about with the fireplace, stoking the flames under the small, worse for wear pot hanging above it. Anders noticed Sascha lying on the rug beside the fire, curled up asleep with her shaggy head between her paws. It was a homely scene and it calmed him even as it mocked him.

What's to stop you? His conscience seemed to scorn, picking up on his doubt, It's a simple question.

Why do you stay with Hawke?

What a ridiculous fucking thing to ask! Anders thought angrily, furrowing his brow and pulling his arms tighter around himself, It doesn't deserve an answer. I'm not that man anymore, I'm not going to hurt people like the selfish, vengeful prick I used to be. I won't. I'm here out of necessity, nothing more.

The silence was prolonged between them, but thankfully not awkward. Callum piled the fire high and began humming softly to himself as he watched the water begin to bubble. Anders blew hot air into his cupped hands and brought his numb, pale feet up onto the thick bedcovers for warmth. He almost wasn't even aware of Callum leaving the room, as preoccupied as he was with his own introspection.

Was there any need for this self assurance, this self pitying? Anders wasn't sure anymore. He had become so self reliant on not blaming himself for anything that, when there was no-one left to blame but himself, he was left at a bit of a loss. Bloody hell, he thought as he pulled his hands out from under his armpits and set them on the bedcovers, what a pathetic mess. Pull yourself together or you aren't going to sort _anything_ out.

"Here you are," Anders looked up to find a steaming mug of what he presumed to be tea being held before his face; he reached up and took it with both hands, grateful for the instantaneous warmth that sprang to his chilled fingers.

He nodded in thanks, holding the mug steady as the bed dipped when Callum sat down beside him. Anders watched the hot water steam, the dark surface rippling as he blew upon it. Alright, _now_ it's a little awkward, Anders thought with a small, wry smile.

"I'd ask what you're doing here," Callum said as he picked at a small scab on the back of his left hand, "but I think I can guess."

Anders took a sip of tea and sighed. Sometimes it was quite reassuring that Callum seemed to have this sixth sense where he was concerned, always right and always understanding. However, sometimes it could get a little grating. I'm either very predictable or I write about myself far too much, Anders thought as he took another sip. Yes Anders had been griping to Callum about Vael, so it wasn't a surprise that Callum could guess as to his problems, but it was still irritating to him.

"Don't want to talk about it, I understand," Callum said, even if his expression said otherwise; Anders could see the tension around the taller man's smile, "you're welcome to stay here tonight. This bed's big enough for two of us I'd say."

I don't know why you're taking now of all times to become so reticent, Anders thought as Callum stood up once more, seeming overly tall and awkward in the low ceilinged room. He had become so used to the taller man speaking his mind that any sign of restraint was curious. Anders wanted to ask him what was wrong but, without his paper and charcoal which he had left in the library, there wasn't much chance of that.

Instead he continued to drink his tea until the warmth slowly returned to his body and he could stop the involuntary shaking in his shoulders. You're a bloody fool Anders, he thought to himself as he stared at the closed doorway.

The sheets were freezing against his forearms and pulled the small amount of heat, which he had struggled to get back, right out again. Yet, even as he pulled the covers over himself, he wished for what he couldn't give himself. You promised you weren't going to hurt anyone else by being selfish, he thought as he shivered, pulling his legs up towards his chest, and that's just the way things will be.

He could practically hear Callum thinking the same thing from the other side of the bed. Sleep did not come easy.

* * *

_The present_

He was being marched, quickly and silently, along an unremarkable, grey stone corridor. The sconces upon the wall flickered wildly as they walked, sending out distorted shadows and subtle hisses as they passed. Anders could barely keep up with the pace, his hands bound behind his back and his arms held tightly by the unknown templars flanking him as they hurried along. His right arm ached and screamed in agony, the rough rope they had bound him with scraping against his broken flesh and straining his swollen wrist at an unnatural angle. Yet he kept quiet, he did not cry out, he did not show weakness, he would _not_ show weakness.

Their footfalls echoed. Anders felt the sickness in his stomach writhe as his exhaustion grew.

They did not even slow down before entering the room to which they had been marching, there was already a templar waiting by the chamber who opened it for them, allowing them to hurry swiftly through and have the door shut quickly and finally behind them. Anders was thrown into a chair before he could take stock of his surroundings.

"Throm, guard the doorway with Helena," a commanding and familiar voice sounded from above him, "and Guerrin, you take the rest of the troops and get back out onto patrol. I want this man _found_."

The light was intense but sparse. The room seemed cast into darkness, but then Anders wasn't sure if it was truly that way or if he was simply losing consciousness. His head lolled and he grimaced as his change in position caused the rope around his wrists to move. There was a desk before him, a large, mahogany desk. He blinked, feeling a cold sweat building on his brow, down between his shoulder blades. He heard the rustling clink of moving armour, the sound of the door opening and closing. He tried to look around, to find the source of the voice, but there was no need.

Knight Captain Cullen thankfully had a rather plain, easily recognisable face even in this dull, meagre candlelight and in Anders' dazed condition. The templar did not take his rather large and imposing seat behind his large and imposing desk, but instead leaned against the front and bent down slightly so as to peer into Anders' eyes.

"Did you do this?" Cullen asked, his eyes dark and hard as he stared into Anders' own, "Hey, speak! Come on Anders I have no time for your games!"

Can't, Anders wished he could tell him. I can't. Maker, take these ropes off of me! The agony was making it hard to think. He screwed his eyes shut and let his head drop forwards as a wave of dizziness struck him. He could feel the blood dripping down his arm, could barely hear its dull thud as it hit the thick rug beneath him.

"Wake up!" Cullen shouted harshly as Anders felt his chin grabbed and his head wrenched up; his eyes went wide and he cried out in pain, even as Cullen continued, "There is a large, smoking ruin in the centre of Lowtown and I know that you had something to do with this! Speak! What is the matter with..!"

The man stopped short so fast that Anders thought, as his vision darkened, that he must have passed out. Yet the pain was still there, the pain that only raged into being once more as he heard Cullen cursing and felt his bindings roughly undone. The smell of blood was combined with the taste of blood as Anders tried to stifle his cry by biting his bottom lip. Yet the pain was too great. His teeth sank through the tender flesh as the blood gushed out and, bizarrely, the small amount of pain it brought was at least a momentary distraction from the far greater pain in his arm.

"They didn't tell me you were injured this badly," Cullen said tightly as he strode to the door and pulled it open, continuing in a barely audible whispered tone, "bring me a healer and do it quietly, you understand me?"

There was a tense silence as Anders simply lay prone in the chair, his arm throbbing and his mind a stilted, jumbled mess of thoughts, most of which he could barely comprehend. He heard Cullen pacing back to his side. Anders look out of the corner of his eye as Cullen crouched down beside him and looked at him so seriously that, despite his panic and his waning energy, Anders tried to focus, he tried unreasonably hard.

Cullen raised his hands to his mouth and looked away for a brief moment. As he spoke he once again looked to the mage.

"I know you were involved in this," Cullen's voice was barely calm and, if Anders had been in any way compos mentis, he would have heard the worry there, "this city has already had enough riots and blood spilled in its streets. Please, I need you to tell me what is happening out there."

Anders turned his head enough to face Cullen and, with no other thought of how to say it, brought his good hand to his mouth and drew it across his lips. This only seemed to make Cullen angrier.

"You won't tell me?" the templar said bitterly as he stood, "After all I've..!"

Shaking his head was an effort but Anders did it regardless. Cullen watched him warily as the mage took a different approach, pointing his hand towards Cullen's desk, towards the quill and ink well sitting there. Cullen frowned but walked to the desk, pointing to the quill for confirmation.

"You want this?" the templar asked, frown deepening as Anders nodded; Cullen stared for a brief moment before, instead of helping Anders to the desk, he simply reached down, took hold of the corner of the desk and wrenched the whole, heavy, cumbersome piece of furniture forwards in two great, screeching heaves until it sat, at an angle, before Anders. Papers, implements and ornaments tumbled and whooshed to the floor, creating a cacophony of noise. The mage would have been taken aback if he hadn't been too desperately focused on writing out that one single word. Cullen watched him as he struggled with the quill and, kindly Anders thought, took the quill from the mage and dipped it into the ink for him before putting it gently back into his hand. "You can't talk," Cullen said softly as he watched Anders, "can you?"

Anders ignored him and continued to try his best to write with his left hand. It was difficult enough simply to write through the fatigue but, somehow, he managed to scratch out something that was barely legible. He slumped back in his chair as Cullen leaned forwards, braced against the desk, to read the one word Anders had scrawled there.

"Magister," Cullen read, his voice blank and emotionless as he did so.

It was thankfully not long until the door opened once more and someone slipped inside discreetly. Anders had fallen in and out of consciousness while they waited, while Cullen stood stoically beside his desk, staring at a focused point in space between himself and the floor. The Knight Captain roused himself as the person walked forwards into the room, sighing as he looked at her.

"No questions Hawke," he said, making Anders' try his best to turn and see who was there, his waning mind reeling at the thought of Hawke being here, Hawke here to save him, "I need you to stop the bleeding and somehow, I don't care how, get him to talk. This is very important."

Yet there was no need to strain, to move, or to understand as Bethany Hawke lowered into his vision, her bright eyes regarding him with steady practicality.

"Stopping the bleeding won't be a problem, Cullen," she said expediently, "getting him to talk, however, isn't going to happen."

* * *

_That morning_...

Sleep had been fitful but, at the very least, that had been to his advantage. The last thing Anders wanted was to wake up midday and have to be seen by everyone, including Varric, sneaking out of Callum's room half dressed. Not that he wouldn't have appreciated the sleep, which he desperately needed, but the shame and the ensuing stories would have been too much to bear.

Instead, in the early hours of the morning, Anders awoke and crept out of the room. He listened to Callum's even breathing as he moved silently through the room. It was calming somehow, even as it made him feel irrationally guilty. The Hanged Man was rather sinisterly dark but, after summoning a small light, Anders managed to stumble his way to the bar and flounder around until he found the key to the door. He sneaked out like a thief, locking the door behind him and shoving the key underneath the door.

It was cold and dark and he still didn't have any shoes. That was the story of his travels to Darktown, keeping to the shadows now that he was more aware of his surroundings. Before he had been in too blind a rage to take note of any bandits watching him. Now, as he looked around him with a paranoid stare, he was far too aware. The trip was long and miserable. Anders managed to sneak into the sewers by the docks and spent the rest of his journey travelling in a small pool of light within the pitch darkness, the foul smelling air surrounding him.

The 'backdoor' to his clinic, otherwise known as the sewer grate at the back end of the room, was a useful addition to his newest location. He crawled up the ladder, slowly pushing up the heavy iron grate with his shoulder. The metal was icy cold, as were the rungs of the ladder against his feet. It took a lot of effort to fully pull himself up through the hole while holding the grate at bay. It made a terrible ringing clang as he let it drop but, thankfully, nobody would investigate such a disturbance in Darktown. In fact it was pretty much standard fare.

Anders was glad that he managed to keep a constant stock of firewood in his clinic these days, thanks to Hawke. He set about lighting the fire with shaking hands and, as he did so, wondered why on earth he hadn't come here in the first place when escaping the mansion. You wanted to see someone, see _him_ , his mind spoke up unhelpfully, someone understanding. What a lot of nonsense, Anders rebuked as he watched the kindling snapping and crackling under the budding flames. As if I would go to Callum Crummock of all people for _relief_. The man does nothing but make me feel more uptight these days.

He did not sleep further that morning. Instead Anders found himself in that self same spot four hours later, after he had pulled his barely used bedroll out from the corner and wrapped himself in its thick warmth, continuously throwing logs onto the fire to keep it blazing. The only way he noticed the passage of time was when he noticed that it wasn't only the fire lighting the room anymore, but the sun beginning to filter in through the high window. It had forced him to pull himself together, shaking the dark thoughts from his mind which had bred as he sat, contemplating.

Things to do, Anders told himself, no time to sit around feeling sorry for yourself. It was a foolish statement but Anders forced himself to believe in it because he refused, point blank, to spend any more of his time sitting on the ground _worrying_. Considering the way his life tended to go he would be lucky if he ever stood again if he stayed with that particular mindset.

The first thing he had done was light the lantern outside the door. Patients would be appreciated, he had thought, good distractions. While he waited he set about boiling a large cauldron of water and began concocting some simple potions, a few of which he imbibed himself, namely to boost his stamina. They weren't a cure but, at the very least, they had helped keep him going over the past week. A few people turned up looking for help as he worked, furiously ignoring any thoughts of Hawke and why the usually predictable man was yet to show up at his clinic looking for him as Anders suspected he would.

As afternoon set in the mage became weary of the normalcy of his day. He did not feel normal. He felt he was playing a part. Anders took the time to gather up the supplies he had been hoarding, including the fresh potions he had brewed that morning and, packing the food, some old clothes and the potions into a few sacks, left his clinic with a doubtful mind and headed down into Lower Darktown. He was thankful for the spare clothes he had been collecting as, temporarily, it gave him something to wear. He pulled on a spare pair of badly sewn shoes which were a little too big for him and pulled on a hooded cloak to cover his body and his face. As far as he was concerned he had been absurdly lucky the night before, rampaging around the city at night and not running into a single bandit or templar. Anders wasn't tempted to test his luck again and, if he could help it, hoped not to run into any templars.

"Well, well," said the heavy lidded, slightly scrawny face that peeked out from behind the half opened door, "if it isn't the quiet man."

Anders shook his head but couldn't help the smile as he did. He hadn't had a lot of time to get to know the woman who called herself Rayzla before he and Hawke had left the city in search of the Anderfels, but since his return the woman had become a permanent addition to the familiar faces of the resistance, for which Anders was very grateful. She was a rather rambunctious person, always ready with a clever quip or a sassy statement. She was also as blunt as a brick to the face, which was either something you appreciated or you didn't. Anders, for one, was glad for her candour, but he already knew that she had offended some of the other members greatly with her frank nature. Internal politics, Anders thought as he slipped into the ramshackle house and Rayzla closed the door behind him.

"It's good that you brought the supplies now," she said as she passed by him in the tight, badly lit corridor beyond the door, gesturing for Anders to follow her, "Grandma was almost ready to leave."

An unfortunate nickname and also given to one of the very first people he had known Rayzla to insult irreparably; Sabine, it could be said, was not very fond of Rayzla. I really wish you would stop calling her that, Anders thought with a sigh as he flicked his head backwards in an effort to dislodge the hood covering his eyes. The corridor led to a ramshackle doorway which led to an even more ramshackle room. Anders entered as Rayzla held the door open for him, the sacks slung over each shoulder making it difficult to manoeuvre. One angry and two worried faces greeted him as he walked into the room and set the sacks down roughly onto the stone floor. Even by the harsh torchlight it was obvious that Rayzla hadn't been over exaggerating, Sabine did not look happy. The other two, Fritt and Belda, were regular runners but neither looked happy to be there. Sabine stood as Rayzla closed the door behind her, walking to Anders as he opened the sacks and began sorting the jumbled masses of equipment and food inside.

"Where have you been, we almost left!" Sabine admonished, her eyes tight.

Anders lifted his right hand and placed it against his chest, inclining his head by way of apology. I would explain, he thought, but we don't really have the time to play charades, do we. It was a harsh thought but then he wasn't really in the mood for more confrontation. He was hardly very late, not enough to warrant this kind of anger from Sabine he was sure.

"Cheer up," Rayzla cut in as she began helping the other two split the supplies into the smaller knapsacks they had brought with them, along with one of her own, "at least he's here."

"Stop being so blasé," Sabine snapped, making Anders frown; he didn't think he'd ever seen the kindly older woman this upset, "it's bad enough that we have to meet like this as it is but we shouldn't be in one place for too long."

"It's fine Sabine," Fritt spoke up, his tense voice juxtaposing his words as his young eyes darted over the small parcels of food and he pulled out what he needed, "we'll be gone soon. No one saw us coming in here, I made sure I wasn't followed."

"That isn't the point," Sabine replied, wringing her hands.

Anders couldn't help but feel a little guilty for making Sabine worry, yet he was also concerned. Is she overreacting, he thought to himself, or am I simply not being serious enough about the danger we are all in? All the years I've been running, all the trials I've faced just to get to this point...perhaps I don't really hold the templars in any esteem. It was a foolish stance to take. Never before had the templars been more in control of Kirkwall, while he had been a resident, and never before had Meredith seemingly hungered so viscerally to crush the mage rebellion beneath her armour shod foot.

* * *

They say that doctors make the worst patients. Anders was sure that if he had been able to form coherent thought he would have been a nightmare, but as it was Bethany gave him no time to try and stop her. Setting the bones in his fingers was the least pleasant moment of their reunion. He was barely able to follow exactly what was being done to him, other than it was causing him great pain. He screwed his eyes shut and grit his teeth.

Next he knew he was sitting upright, barely any pain, no disorientation and no memory of what had just happened. Anders blinked, looking down at the desk before him and the quill once more in his hand.

"Anders can you hear me?" Bethany was asking anxiously, "Please, you need to listen to my voice."

He nodded hesitantly, looking around Bethany to find Cullen standing by the doorway conversing with one of his templar agents in hushed whispers.

"Thank the Maker," Bethany said with relief, "I thought you were...oh, never mind that! Is my brother alright?"

Just as he was trying to affirm that, as far as he knew, Hawke was in no danger, Cullen strode over to them and once again started where he had left off. It was rather surreal, making Anders feel as if he had never blacked out in the first place. Cullen's face was hard and angry, making Anders wish he could question the man himself.

"You wrote Magister, is that who destroyed the Hanged Man?" Cullen asked.

Anders nodded while trying to think how he could write down concisely what he wanted to say. His mind was rushing with too many ideas and worries and confusion and panic. He tried to calm himself down, tried to gain more of a grip on reality, but Cullen took his hesitancy and ran with it.

"Did you invite him here, do you know what he wants?" Cullen burst out; Anders found that Cullen's harassment only made it harder to think, "I have men dead out there! You tell me what you know or I'll make sure that Meredith knows you're here!"

"What are you talking about?" Bethany asked, her brow furrowed angrily, "A Magister? Here in Kirkwall?"

Bethany's distraction gave Anders just enough time to gather his thoughts. What do I do? It was a simple question which unfortunately did not have a simple answer. Meredith doesn't know I'm here? Anders thought quickly, perhaps there is a way to solve this. If Cullen will follow my lead then...

He was quick to scrawl, so quick that the writing was almost illegible. I knew being ambidextrous would pay off one of these days, Anders thought fuzzily, thinking back vaguely to all those years ago when he had broken his right arm in the Circle while trying to climb up the bookcases in the library. He'd spent months being healed because the fracture was complex and difficult to set properly. If nothing else it had forced him to write with his other hand. Thankfully, despite the messiness of his handwriting, Bethany managed to read it when Cullen simply frowned agitatedly.

"Barter?" Bethany asked, looking to Anders quizzically, "What do you mean barter?"

 _Know where he'll be_ , Anders hurriedly wrote. His vision began to blur but he blinked it away, forcing himself to concentrate. Cullen scanned it and Anders could almost see the cogs whirring in his mind.

"Good," he said, looking at the air before his face while he seemed to become lost in the plans surely forming in his mind, "that's perfect. But what is this barter you spoke of? You have something to hold over him?"

Anders couldn't help but smirk as he thought back to the man's appalled and furious face as Anders retreated from the burning ruins.

 _I have his son_ , he wrote before throwing down the quill and using the desk as leverage to haul himself up.

* * *

It began with the sun at its zenith, when Anders finally met with Fenris again. Anders had already been distracted and irritated, trying his best to focus solely on walking, when he was pulled aside at the corner of the west entrance to the Grand Steps plaza. His instincts had been simultaneously torn between lashing out with a flash of kinetic energy and _not_ showing his magical ability in public. Thankfully the later, more ingrained, won out. He was pulled around by an insistent hand and came face to face with a serious looking elf.

"Hurry," Fenris said, his voice breathy as if he had been running, "you have to come quickly."

The mage was given no time to try and ask why as Fenris pulled at his arm before turning around to rush deeper into the side street he had pulled Anders into, giving the mage no option but to follow. Fenris gave him a hard time keeping up, hurrying fast on long legs, jumping down stairs and only looking back long enough to check that the mage was still following, out of breath and a little flustered.

Ten minutes later, breathless and confused, Anders was finally able to stop at the end of a familiar alleyway leading out onto a familiar street; the set of steps leading up to the Hanged Man were plain to see. Fenris peered out around the corner of the dirty stone wall and took deep breaths, his pale hair shining in the sunlight. Where have you been, Anders wanted to shout, what have you been doing and what do you think you are doing now! Anders, unwilling to rush blindly after anyone, reached up and tapped the elf on the shoulder, receiving a startled look for his troubles.

"I don't have any time to explain," the elf said, sounding uncertain and yet, with his eyes glinting and the slightly feverish look in his eyes, Fenris looked a little manic; Anders began to worry, "you said you would help me and I need that now more than ever."

I'm not the kind to go back on my word, Anders thought, but I still need to know what you're dragging me into. He stood his ground and tried to look stubborn, hoping that it would come across. Somehow Fenris understood, or perhaps was just too frantic to waste time convincing the mage when he could just as simply answer him.

"Denarius," Fenris said, taking a step towards Anders, "he's inside, I'm sure of it. I need to finish him, do you hear me? I need to kill him here, now, before he has a chance to slip away from me again! I'll never get another chance like this. Please."

At one time it would have been staggering simply to hear the word 'please' come out of Fenris's mouth when directed at him. Yet now as Fenris stood, chest heaving as he calmed himself, Anders found it was the tone of the word that surprised him. It was a memory more than a realisation, or perhaps both at once. Where had he heard that tone before? The day that Fenris had slaughtered Hadriana and her followers. That raw, painful and yet pleading tone, so alien in Fenris's voice, seemed to pull Anders right back to that moment. Yes he had hated him then, as much as his own childish jealousy had let him, but even Anders had found it impossible not to sympathise even a little with the pain and need for vengeance that Fenris felt.

You know what that is, his mind taunted him even as it tried to convince him, you understand. It's dangerous, we should prepare, I shouldn't rush into this. And that stopped you before? he thought. No, there are people in there! We can't just run in and start a fight, Maker knows what that Magister might do. Varric is in there, Callum is...

"I _don't_ need you to do this to me now," Fenris spoke up and took a fistful of Anders' jacket, making Anders realise he must have been staring at nothing; the mage frowned angrily and took hold of the elf's wrist, trying to dislodge his tight grip, "you said you would help me, I can't _fail_! I am asking for your help! And if you aren't going in with me then I'm going in alone. Be it on your own conscience!"

He wished he had been given time to react with sense and good judgement. He wished that he could have thought of a clever and quick way to diffuse the elf's rash actions, to convince him to wait until they had formulated a good plan, _any_ plan, to make sure everything went accordingly. Everything could be planned for and yet anything could happen. The only two thoughts Anders had on his mind as he ran after Fenris as the elf sprinted across the dusty, bright stone street in the shadow of the eponymous hanged man swinging from a bar on the second floor. They both disappeared into the stale, gloomy pub and the door closed behind them.

* * *

Sometimes Anders would admit that he would never understand the templar who wasn't a devout, one dimensional , narrow minded cut out. Yes he hated Meredith, for her single minded willingness to commit atrocities and to believe it was for some greater good; he hated Sebastian Vael for his want to spread his philosophy without thought for the hatred that it brought, not enlightenment.

Yet he understood them, bizarrely. Their fervour was as his fervour. Men like Captain Cullen, on the other hand, or even Ser Thrask...they baffled him. As far as Anders was concerned there was no grey area to stand in between the dogma of the Chantry and the plight of the mages. It was a dangerous tightrope to cross, with the flames of either side waiting to devour you if you should slip even if only a little. Neither would accept the other, the viewpoints were too diverse, there were too many decades of oppression and hatred screaming them apart to allow for any hope of sympathy or understanding.

Yet Cullen was here. During his short incarceration Anders had deduced that Cullen had not told his superior officer of Anders' capture, of the capture of a dangerous outlaw who Anders _knew_ Meredith would give her right arm to have incarcerated and made Tranquil. He had sneaked Anders into the Gallows to his own private office so as to interrogate him without causing trouble for either side. Everyone wins in Cullen's eyes, he thought with cynical sarcasm, the templars get their Magister and the mages of Kirkwall keep their freedom. You can't have it both ways, Anders thought as he, Cullen and the two templars who had been guarding the doorway quick marched down the long, cold corridors of the Gallows. It'll all end in tears.

This is never going to work, Anders thought as he looked down at himself. Cullen's audacity was all Anders could think would pull them through this ridiculous stunt. He had pulled his hood low over his eyes, yes, but even without identifying his face Anders knew he looked as suspicious as murderer fleeing the scene. He stank of blood, for one, and his right arm, though healed well by Bethany, still hung loose in the shredded, torn and blood soaked sleeve of his leather jacket. His clothes were covered in scorch marks and his trousers similarly stained and burned. He could feel the two templars on either side of him, walking straight backed and authoritatively. Right, Anders thought still amazed he could be flippant considering how anxious he felt, make it look like you're escorting a prisoner. It would help if we weren't heading to the _front door_!

"Assemble you men, Ser Gheret, at once! I want your men in Darktown immediately. Ser Leary, take two squadrons to Lowtown and join Ser Ferah to secure the area, everyone else is with me. I want this city locked down!"

He couldn't see her but Anders knew that voice. He had become so used to the sound inspiring a rising sense of violence in him that the spike of fear was somewhat baffling. Until he realised that it was probably justified considering he was currently injured, disoriented, relying on an enemy to help him while still _inside_ the one place he did not want to be when under the mantle of 'prisoner', whilst his stomach turned at the thought of not breaking out and managing to do what he needed to. What if he was gone, what if he couldn't find his son, if he lost his leverage, if he couldn't get him to...

Cullen turned a sharp left, forcing Anders and the others to follow suit, as they reached the end of the corridor where the entered into an open sided walkway above a courtyard, in which were a mass of steel suited templars standing to attention as, at their head, Meredith stood, steely eyed and seemingly revelling in the crisis and the act of leadership it imposed upon her. Anders allowed himself a fleeting glance before he hid his face, his chin against his chest. He heard Cullen talking and wished, strangely, that the man hadn't said what he had.

"I have to leave you here, Meredith will be looking for me to lead the squadrons in Hightown," he muttered before flashing Anders a quick glance, "if you can stop this I will help you, but no further than that. Take Helena and Throm, find this boy and stop this madness!"

And then he was gone, taking the next left which turned out to lead to a set of stairs which descended into the courtyard while the two templars continued to march straight ahead, keeping Anders between them, and the courtyard, Cullen and Meredith disappeared from view.

It was a terribly surreal situation but, the more he pondered that thought while he allowed himself to be steered through the corridors while templars ran by them and pages scurried through the halls, was that he did not have the luxury of choice. Fenris was counting on him and that was all he could think of right now. He could not shirk his culpability, he could not say that he was not responsible for putting this right. He may have trusted the templars that strode beside him as much as he trusted Denarius to uphold his end of the bargain, but further than that he needed them. If Meredith wanted the city locked down then she would get her wish, she always did and all that was left for Anders was to have a templar escort that could bluff their way through any barricade.

Hopefully.

* * *

It wasn't only dark, it wasn't only quiet, it was empty. As soon as the door to the Hanged Man closed behind him and Anders realised their mistake, it was too late. He was not even given time to turn and try the handle, not that he would have wasted the effort of trying. He knew it would be locked simply because the thing had closed by itself.

Also because, standing at the top of the stairs which led to the accommodation, was a man he did not recognise but, if Fenris's reaction was anything to go by, Anders was sure he could make a fair guess as to who the man was. His well trimmed beard and unblemished complexion spoke of high fashion and opulent living, as did his rich robes which were dyed in expensive purples and deep reds, brocaded with gold and silver thread and overlaid with a shawl of stark, white ermine fur. Anders could feel the swilling in his stomach as the aura of blood magic emanated from the man with his hard, cruel eyes and vicious smile.

And it was surprisingly poignant to see, as much as he still disliked certain parts of the elf's persona such as his his irrationality, his violence and his rages which countered his rather endearing blunt and pragmatic approach to life, his ingrained hatred of mages and their own rocky history together...Anders felt true sympathy as he watched the fear descend in Fenris's eyes. Anders did not think he had ever seen the elf so distressed, not even when facing Hadriana. For Hadriana had produced rage and sadness but never _fear_. The irony of it was also apparent. Fenris _knew_ , he had told Anders that he knew his nemesis was inside the pub, and yet in laying eyes on the man Fenris seemed unable to call upon the rage and the hatred and the anger that he normally wielded like a weapon. Instead of drawing his sword and shouting a death curse at the man, as he would have expected, Fenris took as step _backwards_ and stuttered a rather broken,

"No!"

It wasn't sad because Fenris was afraid. It was sad because Anders knew it was a conditioned response in the elf. That he had angered his master and now he would be punished. It was sad because Fenris, in the simple act of seeing his oppressor once more, had fallen straight back to the state of oppression. The fear and the pain and the helplessness.

"I should have known you would take the bait," Denarius spoke with an incredibly cultured accent, barely strong in its Tevinter accent which suggested he had been taught Kings Tongue by a native speaker; Anders instinctually stepped forwards and took a hold of Fenris's arm, steadying the elf and somewhat snapping him back to his senses, "and I see you've made a friend. How unlike you, my little wolf."

"Quiet that venomous mouth Denarius before I split you open, groin to gullet."

That was more the Fenris he knew, Anders thought as he turned to see the fire in those green eyes, the familiar hatred, even if the fear did still linger there. His voice was nothing but a low growl, sinister in its quality and its intent. Fenris flexed his claw-like gauntlets. Another man, younger in face but similar in appearance to Denarius himself, appeared from behind Denarius and walked down the stairwell into the room followed by a dozen soldiers who filtered out to the edges of the room, creating a rather imposing barrier between them and the Magister, one of whom made Fenris stare in shock. The young man was shouting orders to his troops in Arcanum. This is not good, Anders thought with increasing worry, fuck this isn't good.

"And your friend," Denarius continued regardless, seeming not to care one whit for Fenris's reactions, "why I think he might be a mage if I'm not mistaken!"

Anders felt dirty having the man's eyes upon his person. They were dead eyes, eyes that had seen terrible things done to innocents. Having eyes like that trail themselves over your person as if observing a piece of meat at an auction was a sickening experience. Where is everyone, Anders thought with worry, where are the patrons, Nora, Varric... _Callum_...

"What an enigma you are Fenris," Denarius leered as he continued to stare at Anders.

But Fenris was not listening. When Anders looked back to the elf all he could see was a mixture of wonder and betrayal upon his face. He followed the elf's stare and found it settled upon a young elven woman with shocking red hair, svelt but well built with a pair of stunning moss green eyes. Maker's breath, Anders thought as the realisation sunk in. Those eyes...

"Varania," Fenris said in an uncertain tone, "I...remember you. You're name is Varania."

Everything else seemed to have stopped for Fenris. Anders was becoming more and more anxious at the thought of taking on all of the soldiers, most of whom he was sure were versed in magic, _and_ a Magister to boot, but all of this seemed to have disappeared for Fenris. For which Anders could not truly blame him considering, if their identical eyes were anything to go by, he was sure that he was now staring at Fenris's only sister. Who was standing with Denarius, even if she did look uncomfortable beneath her brother's stare.

"We played together in the courtyard," Fenris's voice became less and less audible, "while mother worked. You called me..."

"Leto," Denarius spoke up, making Fenris flinch and this Varania lower her gaze, still standing amidst the ranks of Denarius' troops, "that's your name, or it was until I gave you a new one. I think Fenris is more fitting, don't you think, fiercer. Leto is too soft a name for one as brutal as you."

"Shut your fucking mouth Denarius!" Fenris spat viciously through his teeth.

"Now, now," Anders watched Denarius' face contort to a stony, blank scowl, "the name is 'master', as you well know my pet."

"I am no one's pet, lest of all yours!" Fenris shouted, his right hand reaching up to draw his vast sword and bring it swinging over his shoulder to crash against the stone floor violently, forcing Anders to stand back, "I've let you take nearly everything from me Denarius, my freedom, my pride, my memories! But I won't let you take my family, I won't let you pervert them as you have me!"

Vitriol, anger, sneering contempt, _anything_ would have been better than the slowly building laughter that emanated from Denarius until the man was outright cackling to himself as if what Fenris had said were the best joke he'd ever been told. Fenris bared his teeth and growled, the lyrium imbedded in his flesh beginning to luminesce.

"Oh Fenris!" the man was as disgusting in his jollity as he was in his faux politeness, "So naive, yet you always were. Did it ever cross your mind, all these years, that I may have been protecting you from your own past?"

"What do you mean?" Fenris spat.

Anders did not like the sound of this. It was obvious that Denarius had the upper hand but, even with all of his soldiers Fenris was still an extremely formidable opponent. Anders had seen him take down a dozen men and women in less than a minute when he was focused enough to fight strategically. Yet when he was angry, well, it was best that he had back up because as far as Anders could tell when Fenris became emotional he also became sloppy. Which Denarius was sure to know, which was why he was so obviously winding Fenris up. Unfortunately Fenris seemed, against his better nature to be falling for it.

"I mean that the freedom you so valiantly fight for," Denarius said as he began to slowly descend the stairs, his troops parting to let him pass, "the magic in your skin that you so detest, your sisters position at my side. It was all down to you Fenris. You wanted _all of it_."

"I don't need to hear your lies!" Fenris shouted, gripping his sword with both hands, perhaps hoping to strike preemptively if Denarius was foolish enough to get too close.

Anders, hoping that he was remaining mainly unobserved while everyone focused on Fenris, subtly sent out an enchanting charm to enchant Fenris's sword with ice, hoping that if the elf did go berserk that the spell would at least freeze some of the enemies solid and give them more time to deal with the large numbers. As he was thinking of other subtle things he could do to tip the scales in their favour, a voice piped up and said enough to make even Anders' mind reel at the implications.

"It's true," the elven woman who Fenris had called Varania stepped forwards until he stood beside Denarius, who looked on her with a disturbing smile, "what he says is true Fenris."

"Quiet," Fenris said in a strained voice, "be quiet!"

"You don't remember, you wouldn't remember," Varania continued with only a slight hesitation, "the fights you took part in, the other candidates you killed with you bare hands just for the opportunity to have Master Denarius give you the lyrium tattoo, to take you as his slave. You thought it was such an _honour_."

What? Anders thought, aghast. No, that must be lies, surely Fenris wouldn't have..? Fenris told me that slaves were forced, that they were captured and forced into slavery. He would never have offered himself for a life of indentured servitude, surely!

"You...you allied yourself with him, you say his lies for him," Fenris said gruffly while Anders tried to get his attention, to touch his arm, but the elf shook him off with a snarl; and Anders could hear the distress in the animalistic noise, the fear not just of Denarius but of the truth that may lie in his accusations, "why Varania, why have you done this!"

"I haven't done anything Leto," she said calmly and rather dispassionately as far as Anders was concerned, "you did it, you did it all. You offered yourself to Denarius for the honour, the status, so that mother could live comfortably as a servant and so that I would never be a slave. So that I too could be an apprentice one day, and that has all come true Leto. There is no need to fight against that which you fought so hard for all those years ago."

An apprentice, Anders thought with shock. His sister...is a mage? By the Maker what is this!

"Come Fenris," Denarius said with a cruel smile, "come back to me. I have missed you so, your loyalty and obedience. You were my greatest achievement and you can be again."

It was a mistake on the part of Denarius to push Fenris when it was obvious to anyone with eyes that the elf was about to crack. Even as Anders tensed, knowing that everything was about to become very messy indeed, the swiftness with which Fenris leapt forwards, swinging his humongous blade before him like a scythe as he let out a prolonged, guttural war cry was astonishing even to him. Denarius just as swiftly retreated as the infantry soldiers swarmed forwards and the magic users in his band of fighters began summoning and casting spells.

Three men fell with one swipe, splitting two clean in half and cleaving the third's torso open, sending blood and splintered bone through the air as the corpse fell gurgling into the fray. Thankfully the icy spray that accompanied his wild swings was proof enough that Anders' enchantment was working and he could feel the drain on his mana as Fenris fought. Fenris was in a blind rage, which was exactly what Anders had hoped wouldn't happen and, instinctually, fell to backing the elf up with whatever he could while trying to protect himself as well.

It was a tall raider, decked out in bulky, thick armour who came running for him while, behind the charging enemy, Anders could see a group of four mages summoning a sinister set of swirling, dark shades from the Fade. It was instinctual even without a staff. Anders lifted his hands and pushed all of his energy into the crushing prison spell which he forced around the raider who seemed to be intent on cleaving him in two. The man did not seem to notice at first, forcing Anders to dodge out of the way of the man's large axe , allowing it to become imbedded deeply in the wall behind him. Anders didn't have the chance to turn and see if his spell had worked as he found himself faced with two women, svelt and wielding daggers, who simultaneously disappeared in a puff of smoke. Anders coughed and blinked, listening with a latent sense of satisfaction as the gurgling screams from behind him signaled that the crushing prison was working well. He was able to be happy for all of a millisecond before he was kicked to the ground, the blow landing square in his spine.

Anders cried out involuntarily, rolling over as quickly as he could and just in time it would seem as he found himself faced with one of the women looming over him, ready to plunge the dagger into his chest. He reacted instinctually and sent out a wave of ice, encapsulating the woman completely and freezing her solid. The scream she let out became stuck in her throat and Anders scrambled to his feet before blasting her with kinetic magic to shatter her bloody corpse all over the room. A room which was significantly reduced in enemies, as far as Anders could see, littered as they were in bloodied, gory piles on the floor. Anders took a moment to cast a set of rock armour upon himself just as the second woman, whom he had lost sight of, reappeared from behind the bar and ran at him with her dagger raised. He prepared a wall of flame but it was unnecessary. The woman did not make it within five feet of him before a large sword slammed through her back and burst through her chest, spraying Anders in blood. Fenris wasted no time in ripping the blade from the woman's mangled corpse and letting her fall with a disturbing squelch to the floor.

It was then, as Anders and Fenris stood side by side and the mage let out a few complex healing spells to cover the few scrapes and gauges on the elf's person, that Anders realised that the shades had not attacked. In fact there were now twelve shades summoned in the small room, the tables and chairs broken and scattered and the body parts and corpses littering the floor, but not a single one was making a move to attack. A quick scan revealed that only Denarius, the well dressed young man, Varania and two other mages were left alive. At first Anders thought that maybe Denarius was holding off but, instead the Magister looked livid.

"Attack them you dim-witted fools!" the Magister shouted at the mages who, in turn, tried fearfully to convince their summons to charge forwards and attack.

Only a few complied, shifting and shape-changing as they went, as if being pushed towards a cliff. What on earth? Anders thought, his heart racing as the adrenaline pumped through his system. Fenris snarled at his side but the elf's face was split into a manic grin.

It was then, when one of the shades drew too close for comfort, that Anders stepped forwards, ready to send a rain of icy crystals over the whole, shifting, black mass of summoned fiends. Which was his plan, until something odd and rather frightening occurred.

The shade screeched as if struck, shivered backwards and flew down through the very floor and back into the Fade. Anders stared, as did everyone else, but he was sure that only the mages in the room truly comprehended what a bizarre and unsettling sight it was. A shade disobey it's master? Anders thought, no, no that can't be possible. Only one time had he seen fiends so scared that they had fled back to their dream state in the Fade simply to escape something they found so very terrifying.

That night, atop the hill, when Vengeance walked free of him and Alesis fell.

"What's this Denarius," Fenris said facetiously, "your pets won't obey? Seems to be a running theme for you!"

"Hold your tongue _slave_ ," Denarius shouted haughtily although Anders could see he was slightly shaken, "or do you need me to give you a further lesson in pain."

But Anders was not listening to them. He was too caught up in the thoughts in his own head. Why, he thought, _why_ would that be! This can't be true, it's not possible! He stepped forwards again and the whole mob of shades began to quiver and shake, shifting around each other to try and escape. Another step and Anders found himself standing alone in the centre of the room, watching eleven healthy, fully formed Fade spawn scream and retreat through any surface they could find to flee back into the Fade. It wasn't possible, Anders thought, it just wasn't...He knew that everyone was staring at him but he didn't know what to do. We're separate, vengeance is gone now, Justice is _gone_. He looked up at the feel of eyes on him to find Denarius staring, no longer with shock, but once more with curious hunger. Anders stepped back quickly until he was by Fenris once more.

"My, my," Denarius said with calm wonderment, "what a rare talent that is."

"What did you do?" Fenris asked, his tone showing his confusion.

"Your friend is quite the miracle worker," Denarius smiled, obviously not at all fazed that nearly all his soldiers were dead and his Fade spawn were obviously too frightened to attack his enemies, "and a skilled healer too. Why he would fetch quite the price on the market wouldn't he."

Anders narrowed his eyes and heard Fenris growl, obviously too offended by Denarius' speech to be too occupied with the oddity of the shades.

"You won't be taking any more slaves Denarius," Fenris said eagerly, "because, in case you hadn't noticed, you'll soon be dead!"

It was like watching a glass falling from a table. There was nothing you could do to stop it, you knew you would never reach it in time. All you could do was watch it fall. Anders knew that there must have been a reason that Denarius was so calm, so certain in himself despite the beating his forces had taken. He tried to help as Fenris rushed forwards. Anders sent a wave of fire over the remaining two mages, combining it with a dispel to counteract any wards they may have had activated. They fell screaming to the floor, writhing in agony, and Anders managed to witness Fenris ducking down under the blow of the young man, springing back up to deliver a fierce swing to the man's back which only just cut into him, sending him falling towards Anders with a scream. Then Fenris lunged at Denarius, and Denarius did something that he seemed to know Fenris wouldn't be able to avoid.

He pushed Varania before him and watched, with seeming amusement, as Fenris's sword pierced her chest even as Anders watched the elf try and react, try and pull his blow back, stop the momentum. It was all too late. The sword cleaved through Varania's chest and the woman did not scream; her mouth fell open and her eyes grew wide but, even as Fenris pulled the sword back, leaving a large, gory whole in his sister's chest, she did not make a sound. She simply fell to the ground, let out a long, slow breath and died before their eyes.

Everything had happened so fast that Anders barely had time to perceive the look of horror on Fenris's face before the elf did the one thing Anders wished he hadn't. He let his sword slip from his numb hands and Denarius reacted instantly. Anders tried to call out but all that emanated from his mouth was an indeterminate cry. He tried to send a blast at Denarius but it was too late. As soon as Denarius touched the elf's skin Fenris went rigid, his mouth opening in a silent scream and his eyes screwing shut. He dropped to the ground shivering as if someone had beaten him so badly that he couldn't stand.

Anders would admit, he panicked. Rushing forwards to attack a Magister head on was not the smartest thing he had ever done, he would admit that. He had let out a cry, trying to distract Denarius from Fenris's prone form, and rushed forwards with his right arm raised, a focused kinetic blast aimed for the Magister's head which Anders hoped, point blank, would make enough of an impact to disorientate him.

It never hit. Denarius lifted his own arm with lightning fast reflexes and, startlingly, grabbed a hold of Anders arm and let out a rending blood magic spell which made Anders recoil in sheer agony. His arm felt as if someone had crushed it beneath a boulder. When he managed to open his eyes the horror of what he saw made him want to do nothing but shut them again. His fingers were bent and twisted unnaturally, like the roots of a tree, bleeding and torn. The skin of his forearm was rent open like runnels in bark, pouring blood and showing sinew and muscle to the open air. The mage fell to his knees and tried his best to see past the pain and the revulsion and managed to send a very small amount of healing energy out to stop the worst of the bleeding from his arm. However, the familiar feeling of sickness began to take effect. Blood magic, Anders thought in alarm. It was just like Orden all over again, there was a leaching spell inside of the rending spell, draining all of his mana resources dry. Anders heaved form the effect, looking up to see the Magister leaning over Fenris who was still laying prone on the ground, shaking.

"You'll be home soon, my pet," Denarius was saying as he stroked tenderly at Fenris's face; what has he done, Anders thought frantically.

He would be the first to admit that he knew nothing of hand to hand combat. He had picked up some techniques from watching Hawke fight, he would admit, but he was not as refined as the rogue by a long, long way. Someone like Hawke could kill you without you even realising that it had happened until you were face down in the dirt in a pool of your own blood. Anders was obvious and clumsy. He was awkward with his fists and his feet. So when Denarius stood up, walking past Anders as if he were no longer a threat, heading towards the still alive young man behind Anders, the mage did something unexpected, for both Denarius and himself.

He launched himself upwards and to the side, taking Denarius off guard and sending the Magister stumbling backwards to trip over Fenris's prone form. Anders knew from the wave of sickness that swam through his system that he had no chance of taking the Magister in a fair fight. So, with little to know plan, Anders scrambled backwards, grabbing a discarded dagger on the floor and held it to the throat of the young man. When he looked up Denarius was not amused, but also was not attacking him, which Anders took as a good thing.

"Don't do anything rash, boy," Denarius said tightly, "I wasn't planning on killing you, but that can be arranged if need be."

Anders simply pulled the dagger tighter against the young man's throat. The man in question groaned, his eyes fluttering as he became conscious once more. Please tell me he gives a flying fuck about this one, Anders thought, considering how he's treated all his other lackeys it's definitely a risky idea. Anders was holding out that the strong resemblance between Denarius and the young man he had prisoner meant that they were family and, even more than that, that Denarius would _care_ about his offspring.

"Let us not be savages..." Denarius continued, getting Anders' hopes up even as the mage wavered from the severe pain and blood loss.

Then the templars attacked. How had they found out what was going on? Anders did not know. There had been an awful lot of noise and, admittedly, summoning that many Fade spawn in the centre of Kirkwall was bound to get at least _one_ templar's attention. Perhaps Denarius had hoped to be in and out of Kirkwall before the templars even noticed his presence. Now, it seemed, he would have to deal with them face to face.

Which unfortunately did not turn out to be any sort of problem for the Magister at all. The templars broke through the door, one entered followed by three more, and they were not even given enough time to speak before Denarius lifted both his hands and sent out a flash of bright orange light, the likes of which Anders had never seen before. Which was why he was taken entirely by surprise when the flash missed every one of the templars but hit the wall behind them and, on contact with the stone wall, exploded with stupendous force. Anders was sent sprawling over the young man, lucky not to have gashed his throat open, while the templars were sent flying into the room in a jumbled mess of bones and blood and armour. Anders' ears rang as he forced himself to stand, watching as more templars appeared at the ruined wall which, amazingly was wide open to the world outside.

Half of the front of the Hanged Man was gone, stone and mortar, debris and body parts, were sprayed out over the street in a sort of morbid confetti. Anders stared in fascinated horror as Denarius mercilessly slaughtered the two further templars who ran in through the gaping whole in the wall, crushing their helmets with a terrifyingly precise use of the crushing prison, watching as their helmets buckled and creaked inwards while the templars tore at them with impotent hands until the blood gushed and the scream stopped.

Get out. That was the only thought left in Anders' head as he heard the tramping of further feet and the screaming of people outside. You need to get out, you can't win this. Take the man, you need him. Take him, he's all that you have. Anders looked up as Denarius turned and began devastating the wall to his right, perhaps to make an escape route for himself. Yet Anders couldn't think further than that, further than _escape_. He looked down to Fenris, laying basically unconscious at Denarius' feet as the maddened Magister continued his onslaught on a group of four templars who had rushed to his newly carved hole in the Hanged Man's architecture, which was rapidly crumbling under the onslaught.

I'll come back for you, Anders thought as he quickly stood and began dragging the young man away while both the templars and Denarius were busy. I swear it on my life I'll come back for you! It was only as Anders reached the wall and began dragging the boy around the corner that Denarius seemed to notice him. The man's eyes were livid, filled with rage and glee. He let out a cry and sent a heavy burst of blood magic straight at Anders which the mage only just managed to parry with a shield which he summoned at great expense to his own health. Even as he did it he felt the rending cuts in his forearms once more split open, as if simply using his own magic had somehow been turned against him.

Yet, and even Anders would admit it, he had a reason to thank a templar for once in his life. Just as Denarius made for a second assault, one which Anders would not have been able to block without severely injuring himself, a single templar with more guts than brains ran into the room and slashed Denarius from his shoulder to his elbow with their sword. The Magister cried out in anger and pain and turned to take hold of the prone templar, sending out what Anders recognised as vile blood spell designed to suck the very life essence form another human being and use it to repair the casters own injuries. Yet he didn't have time to watch as he began frantically dragging the man away once more.

It was only as he was finally out of the Hanged Man, trying his best to head for the nearest space that he could use to hide, that he heard Denarius's voice shouting from inside.

"You bring him back to me, mage, or I swear I'll find whatever is dearest to you and I will kill it slowly before your eyes!" Denarius raged even as Anders heard him continuing to fight, hopefully against enough templars to keep him busy until Anders was far enough away, "bring him to the mansion if you ever hope to live without the fear of death upon you!"


	7. Hawke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter does exactly as it says in the title. A quick glimpse into Garret Hawke. This chapter takes place directly parallel to 'Taken', starting with Anders leaving the mansion after his fight with Hawke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Sexual situations

It was frustration, more than real anger, that made him pace. Fool, he thought, bloody fool, what was he thinking? I was only trying to help, why can't he see that? If I don't do this then, Maker _dammit_...

Hawke sat down upon the empty bed, the firelight lambent upon the floor, and sighed. He rubbed at his tired face and stared at the rug, watching the light dance across the jumbled pattern of reds and blues. He could hear someone moving around on the floorboards outside, the soft creaks giving them away. Hawke hoped it wasn't Vael, hoped the man wouldn't try to console him or whatever else he had in mind, or the hand he had offered the man earlier would probably end up square in his face.

I was just trying to help, Hawke thought, I can't keep us both safe if we're constantly under surveillance by Meredith. Hawke felt the soft press against his side, looking down to find the cat rubbing herself against him, her tail held high.

"Hello kitten," he could hear the defeated tone in his voice, "come to keep me company?"

I'll need it, he thought. Why do I always have to make such a mess of things? The cat began to purr as he stroked her head, running his fingers over her back. He was angry, he knew he was just trying to ignore it, but he was angry. He doesn't understand, Hawke sighed roughly at the thought as he tried to relax his shoulders. After everything that's happened, after all the trouble we made getting to the Anderfels and back, that wasted journey that nearly ended us all, I don't think he realises the danger it's put us in. The templars are looking for him, the Wardens are looking for him and Maker knows what else is out there, looking for him. Everything is sitting on the edge of a knife, Hawke thought, and it could fall either way. I need to be the one in control of this or, well, or I won't be able to rest.

Still I was...I was too hard on him. I was just so angry, why can't he understand? Taking Sebastian Vael into his house, into the one place he thought he had made a safe haven, was a big decision for Hawke, something he had by no means taken lightly. That was something he had hoped Anders would have helped him with, not fought against. Hawke didn't like it either, but it was all he could do to help them. Helping the Chantry, having a sworn Brother in their midst, was enough to surely stave off Meredith's suspicion, even if only for a short while. With the backing of the Grand Cleric life would be simpler and the threat would lessen, or so he hoped. It would take the heat from them, even as Anders seemed determined to have it otherwise. Bloody fool, Hawke thought again, feeling his gorge rise at the spectacular flippancy and disrespect his partner managed to show in regards to his own safety. Walking the streets without protection, sneaking into the underground archives in search of Maker knew what. Hawke was sure Anders thought he had no idea what the mage got up to, but he knew, oh he knew, and it was enough that he would not tell him, never mind that he risked so much for so little.

So he would keep Vael around until the man saw it fit to leave, because at that moment, as far as Hawke saw it, he was all that stood between Anders and the noose.

The thought forced him to swallow down the rising fear and sickness that it produced. He absently scratched behind Madam's ears. I'll keep us safe, he repeated to himself over and over again, I'll do it, even if you hate me for it. The only reason he hates you is because you keep hurting him, his conscience supplied unhelpfully. Hawke shook his head in irritation, frowning.

"I had better..." he stopped, feeling the rising guilt as he spoke to the small cat at his side, "I had better go look for him."

He had managed to do it again, allow his latent temper to carry his actions further than he had wanted to. Anders' silent fury, as they had spoken of Vael in the library, had only spurred his own anger, at both the situation that he could not change and the fact that Anders would not simply help him as Hawke asked.

Such a small thing, Hawke tried to justify as he pulled on his heavy winter coat and roughly slid his feet into his fur lined boots. All I asked was that he be civil, be polite, and further than that _nothing_. I wasn't asking him to become best friends with the man! The cold bit at his cheeks and the darkness forced him to open his eyes wide in order to adjust. The trek down to Lowtown, at this time of night and considering the foulness of his mood, was not something he wanted to deal with. It gave him too much time to think, too much time to realise he was in the wrong, somehow, even though he was justified in his actions as far as he was concerned.

I didn't mean to hurt him, he thought as he walked to the front door of the clinic. I just want him to understand, I just...fuck, this is ridiculous! It isn't always my fault, he should be more understanding of my position, of what I have sacrificed by having him here with me. He needs to know we can't _have_ a normal life, that precautions need to be taken. Every risk he takes is a risk against all of us. It isn't only Anders that has it hard, he should be bloody apologising to me, not the other way around!

Hawke knocked upon the door, softly at first but, as no answer was forthcoming, harder and faster until he was aware that he wasn't so much knocking anymore as much as he was taking out his frustration upon the door. He stood back and took a breath, a deep breath, calming his ire until it once more simply simmered beneath the surface. He fished in his pocket for his pouch, finding it and pulling it out, as he stared at the opening in the far wall, leading out to the docks. The sound of the ocean, far beyond, was echoed by the tall docking walls up into the chamber in which he stood. He focused on it as he pulled out the lockpick, listened to the waves as he knelt down by the door and slid the device inside. The practiced motion of slickly breaking into the Clinic was calming, something that was unfortunately entirely undone by the fact that, when he searched, Anders was not inside.

"Fucking moron!" Hawke spat out under his breath, "Where in the Black is he!?"

Not here, he though unhelpfully, so where? Where would he have gone? Perhaps to Merrill? It only made things worse, somehow, that he wasn't entirely sure where the mage would go, what his thought process would be. Do I know him so poorly, Hawke thought as he tied his coat tighter together to stave off the chill night air and, thoughtfully, locked the door behind him.

He had thought things would be better. Perhaps it was naive, perhaps, but it had seemed somehow realistic. Justice was gone now, the most poisonous part of Anders had left him, and now they had each other, _just_ each other, and everything else could be forgotten. Hawke couldn't stop the automatic reaction, raising his hand to his throat and rubbing against it subconsciously, feeling the ribbed skin of the scar beneath his fingertips. There were many things that needed to be forgotten from that trip, many things that were too much for his sanity to handle. Waking up in a pool of his own blood would be one of them. Anders in the arms of that _man_ would be another. Waking to find himself at Weisshaupt and Anders dead...that would be the last. It would be enough for him to forget it all, enough that it had never happened. They should be together, they would be fine, if they could just trust each other again everything would work out in the end, he knew it would.

"Oh my, Serrah Hawke!"

The sudden voice had him swing around to find Nora behind him, in the process of heading up a small flight of stairs. She smiled at his startled face, which forced Hawke to smile.

"Nora, you're out late," Hawke said personably, even as he tried to back out of the small talk.

"I could say the same for you," the woman said with a sly smile which Hawke didn't much appreciate, "but then I think I know why. Anders is in the Hanged Man, as I guess you're lookin' for him; silly fool, turned up without his shoes on. The doors locked but Messer Callum is awake, just knock and he'll let you in."

It was all Hawke could do to nod in thanks as Nora smiled and walked up the stairs, unlocking the door to what must have been her house, Hawke thought. He did so because it stopped him thinking about what she had said. He turned from her and began to walk, knowing now at least that he had a definite destination. Before he had been guessing, nothing more, but now he knew where he was going. He heard his footsteps become silent, a telling trait that made his eyes narrow. Oh he wasn't angry, no he wasn't _angry_ , he was more than that. He was livid, everything falling into place as he no longer walked, but stalked towards the Hanged Man, feeling far more deadly than he had in a long time. It was not a good thing, and he knew that. He did not want to feel this way, not like this, he was too prone to rash action and satisfaction in violence when he felt this way. Yet that name, that one name, made the hairs on the back of his neck tingle and his muscles tighten with anticipation.

He did not trust Callum Crummock, no matter that the man had done a few good deeds for both him and Anders, no matter that he had saved them from death on that cold, bleak night in Nordbotten. Hawke did not trust him and he felt it was justified. Association with Alesis, that cursed filth, that _fucking_ scum who had essentially sold his mother to that insane blood mage, was enough to have his suspicions confirmed. Of course I brought him back here, didn't I, Hawke thought in annoyance as he continued up the stone steps from the Marketplace, but after Anders was, well...after he came back to me I wasn't exactly thinking straight. I should have left the bastard in that tower to rot, or worse, anything but bring his festering presence further into our lives. Hawke would admit that he was a control freak, he enjoyed order and delineations, he liked it when he knew how things worked and who people were and what they did and who they knew. Crummock was an unknown factor and that jarred with his rigid sense of order and understanding and control of the world around him.

Also his obvious and continued interest and association with his lover didn't help Crummock's case, as far as Hawke was concerned.

The door was no obstacle, the lock slipping open with ease under his skilled fingers, and he felt no need to warn his prey of his presence until he wanted to do so. The door opened silently and he crept inside, closing it behind him. He moved noiselessly, keeping into the shadows, his dark clothing hiding him from view. That was when the door opened, further up the corridor, spilling light out into the darkness, and a man emerged, just the man he wanted, who then closed the door and walked haplessly down towards the bar. Hawke slid up against the wall, keeping to the far corner, out of sight, and listened to his shuffling footsteps as they drew closer. Hawke watched as he walked around the bar itself, dressed in baggy night clothes, his face placid and slightly happy, to which Hawke had to extend extra effort to stay calm. He waited until the man was turning towards him to speak.

"Find what you were looking for?" Hawke asked quietly.

Callum did not leap out of his skin, but he was sufficiently scared enough to shuffle quickly backwards and take a hold of the bar itself with one hand, lifting the other to his chest. Hawke walked forwards, becoming barely illuminated by the scant light from the window which led out to the main concourse. The tall mage looked down at him, frowning, his breathing giving away his fear.

"What on earth are you..?" Callum started, whispering his words somewhat.

"I'm here for Anders," Hawke cut to the chase, keeping to the quiet tone; he wanted this encounter over with, he wanted Anders back home with him, everything back to where it should be, "what have you done with him?"

"Actually," Callum replied, seeming to compose himself somewhat once he had recognised Hawke, "I feel I should be asking you that."

He was trying to be reasonable, he was trying to keep calm and do this efficiently, but that did not seem to be an option when dealing with accusations such as that which Crummock had foolishly thrown in his face. Seeing red was putting it mildly. Hawke would have pulled his dagger, he would have, if the thought of Anders' dismay at his actions hadn't stopped him. Instead he took a threatening step forwards, which was enough to have Callum take another shuffling step back. It assuaged his ire somewhat, to know that the man feared him and rightly so. How dare you, Hawke thought, how _dare_ you make me out to be some sort of monster. It's none of your damn business what we do or what fights we have or how we behave! If I were a lesser man you wouldn't keep that superior look for long, you bastard! Oh I'll find a time, Hawke thought, don't you worry friend, I'll find a _time_ for you.

"Watch your tongue," Hawke said seriously, "if you don't fancy losing it."

"Big words from a man who needs to hide in the dark," Callum said, holding his ground even as he eyed Hawke warily, "I'd say it's fair that Anders came here for a reason. If he wants to stay I won't make him leave."

"Of course you wouldn't," Hawke spat out, unable to hide his anger in the face of Callum's words, "you seem to revel in worming your way into our lives, don't you, just like a fucking maggot."

"What an apt metaphor for your relationship," Callum said tightly, "considering maggots only feast on corpses."

"Oh you think you're so _fucking_ clever, don't you, you piece of shit," Hawke said dangerously, walking forwards until he was right up in Callum's face, forcing the man to look straight down upon him; there were almost no words to cover his fury, the baseless accusations that Crummock was using as barbs, "well that's good for you, isn't it, that's _good_ for you," Hawke stared into Callum's eyes, somewhat black in the half light, "until you realise that it's nothing but a passing infatuation that he has in you, nothing more than that!"

It would have been far more satisfying, if Hawke actually believed his own threats. Regrettably, he feared that it was, or perhaps could be, more than that. Anders was an impetuous man, open and caring and loving, and he needed that in return. Hawke knew, and it hurt to know it, that he was not exactly always what Anders needed. He was rash and bitter, he held grudges and he was quick to take insult, he was judicious and controlling and overall jealous by nature. He had tried to change, he tried to be more understanding, but there was a base fear lying beneath all of his actions, driven by the loss of his family and the fine line that he and Anders walked between a wonderful life together and an irreparable split. The thought of someone such as Callum, who seemed so carefree and kind and yet ultimately unknown and suspicious, near Anders made him lose sleep. Anders may not have always needed Hawke, as far as the man could tell, but he needed Anders and he would do anything to keep him safe.

He liked to think that they were together because they loved one another, that everyone had problems but their love overcame that fact. His mother and father hadn't been the perfect couple, but they had seen things through, their love had surmounted all odds. Which was why the next thing to leave Callum's mouth was such a challenge to that very thought.

"Then you should be man enough to let him chose," Callum said, deadpan, "instead of running over here to retrieve him like a lost pet. He's a grown man, he can make his own decisions."

"...Fine," Hawke was aware that he ground out the word, feeling his petty nature coming to the forefront in the face of his anger and pride, " _fine_. You want it that way? We'll see who comes out on top in this."

"Trust you to take it like that," Callum sighed, shaking his head, "no wonder he's so conflicted all the time. You must make it so difficult to like you."

"Another word and I'll see no reason not to gut you right here," Hawke snarled, lowering his voice once more as he realised he was losing his temper.

Callum just watched him, seemingly emotionlessly. Hawke reigned himself in and swallowed down his rage, walking silently to the door and leaving without another word. He walked back to Hightown with a calm bred of wrath, unsure what to do with himself. He had wanted nothing more than to march up to that room and drag Anders home, apologise until he was raw in the throat, until Anders understood that he was sorry, that he didn't do this maliciously but he did it because he loved him and couldn't bear the thought of anything untoward happening to him. Yet he hadn't, perhaps because Crummock's challenge debased his own pride, or maybe because, deep down, Hawke feared that there was something in it.

That, given the choice, Anders would rather leave him and have a far happier and easier life elsewhere. It was both a sobering and miserable thought.

It was dark in the mansion, quiet and cold. He was glad not to find Vael hanging around, waiting for him to return. The man seemed determined to worm his way into Hawke's good graces, in one way or another, and showing undue concern towards him was his main tactic. He was so bloody _nice_ and _reasonable_ in all matters that it was difficult to dislike him. Hawke wished he would just stop his fervent Chantry nonsense and make it easier for all of them. If it weren't for his radical views Hawke was sure that Sebastian would be a valuable ally and a good friend. Yet, even though Fenris had had far more vehement in his views about mages and was now more open to change, Hawke thought that Vael would be even harder to tame. Fenris was wild and angry, but Vael was calm and assured; the worst kind of fanatic.

Which only led him to another difficult topic. Hawke stripped himself of his heavy coat, dropping it carelessly into the armchair, before divesting himself of his boots and pulling off the rest of his clothes. He threw a few logs onto the dying fire and used the bellows to pump in a few heavy blasts of air, sparking the flames back into life. Fenris was...a complicated matter, not that he had ever been easy to deal with. He always asked the impossible, that was perhaps what Hawke resented the most about his relationship with the elf. If he would just let go of his past, Hawke thought in irritation as he pulled on his thick sleeping shirt, if he could only move on then none of the pain he suffers through would be necessary. What on earth is he to gain from finding out all the terrible things he has hidden in the recesses of his mind? He tortures himself enough with what he _does_ know, never mind all he has lost to his amnesia. Memories of that night, all those years ago, of that one brief time they had spent together, of the look in the elf's eyes as he had tried to explain his feelings. There had been a hint, no matter how small, of the poisonous memories lying beneath his green eyes, of the slowly fading thoughts of his past that he was ironically trying to cling to.

" _What would you have me do? Forgive? No matter how many times they hunt me down? Am I supposed to forget all the things they've done to me?" Fenris had shouted._

" _You may not wear chains any more, but you're not free!" he had replied in kind._

He had only wanted to help alleviate that screaming anger and pain that Fenris held inside. If he could do it, he would, but the elf wouldn't let him. Maker he had tried, but then his solution perhaps hadn't been as sophisticated as Fenris needed. Harsh words, reprimanding his rash actions, had led to a fierce kiss against the wall, the heat of the fire against his back. He could recall the feeling of Fenris's sharp gauntlets clawing across his shoulders, almost tearing his shirt from him. He remembered the maddening and rough journey up to the bedroom. He could still recollect the surprising affection in their love making, the tenderness he hadn't known Fenris was capable of. It had hurt all the more because of that, as he had watched him walk away into the night and never look back.

" _I love you"_

Yet the memory of three simple words was enough to remind him why he did not often dwell on the what-if's and wherefores. Anders meant it and that was what made him realise how lucky he was. He was loved and loved in return, something that he could at least remember from time to time. If they had nothing else they had that, at least. If only I can keep a hold of my temper, my fear, Hawke thought, everything will be fine.

" _If you ever, ever do anything like that to me again...I'm gone, and you won't find me this time_ "

Hawke had no delusions that what Anders had said to him that day, standing in the downstairs sitting room of the house in Val Chevin, had been a complete truth. He isn't going to forgive you forever, he thought, making the anger rise once more, only this time directed at himself. You wouldn't put up with the sort of rubbish that you subject him to, so why on earth do you _do_ it? Why can't you just trust him, love him, care for him? Why do you have to be so bloody hateful?

He knew why, and it was enough to make the vile ire rise. Those were memories he would rather not recall, the feeling of hands around his waist, the sweat from a hard day gathering wheat in the sun running down his back. He had been young then, too young to understand what tenderness was, what real love was. Things he should never have let happen, and yet now he only perpetuated that hateful lust. The fact that he felt he couldn't stop himself, needing that excited fear, that same jolt of pleasure that came to Anders' eyes when he forced him down against the sheets. It was all too familiar and sickeningly so.

Hawke slid beneath the cold covers, shivering involuntarily and wishing, wearily, that Anders was there with him. A warm pair of arms to hold him would not have gone amiss, considering his black thoughts. Things always seemed brighter on the other side, as his father used to tell him, and it was a sage mind that took that advice. He and Anders would work through this, they always did; they seemed determined to fight for each other no matter what and that was enough to keep Hawke hopeful that he could make things right. Well, you're determined to keep _him_ , he thought agitatedly. Sometimes I wonder if that's really a reciprocated feeling.

Who knew. It was one of the most trying parts of his relationship with Anders, the feeling that he was more a burden than a help. That perhaps he was doing nothing but getting in the man's way, keeping him from fulfilling his wants and desires, holding him so tightly that the mage felt trapped. I just want to make sure he's safe, Hawke thought again as he shivered slightly to stave off the cold, I failed with Carver, with mother and Bethany; I won't let him down too, no matter how much he resents me for it.

Why do I never choose the uncomplicated men? Hawke thought with a sigh, shifting uncomfortably. His anger had simmered down into nothingness, leaving behind only the telltale irritations in his tense shoulders, his rigid spine and, unfailingly, the heat between his legs. It was something he didn't understand about himself, something that always left him feeling somewhat shameful, but his anger culminated in intense feelings of desire and need. He felt the urge to fuck something, hard and fast, and he hated it as much as he gave in to it.

 _...the sunlight was muted in the barn, the air heavy with the scent of hay and chickweed. It scratched at his back as Vincent pushed him down roughly against the hay-stack and leaned across him, the heat almost unbearable.  
"Beautiful," the man said as he stroked a hand across Hawke's cheek_...

Damn it all, Hawke thought, trying to find something else to think of. His first time wasn't exactly the best memory, as was anything associated with Vincent Farthern. It wasn't important, it was...

... _a hand tight around his wrists, holding him secure. The slick sound of flesh meeting flesh, a hand across his mouth..._

His hand slid down his abdomen slowly as Hawke tried to banish the thought from his mind, reaching up under his nightshirt to take hold of his burgeoning erection, letting out a soft sigh as he rolled onto his back and began stroking softly. He twisted his fist, gripping tighter, as he let his imagination run away with him, bringing to mind the memory of Anders' voice, whispering into his ear, ' _tell me what you want'_. He tried to let the memory of those sweet words take him away from it, from the darker thoughts of...

... _he hadn't known it could be any other way. He had never had someone who accepted him, told him what he was worth, reciprocated his needs. The next day he had walked into the barn without any persuasion..._

He let out a long groan, slipping his finger up over the head of his cock, moving it back and forth, jerking at the intense feeling. What I want? Hawke thought as he tried to imagine Anders beside him, his beautiful amber eyes staring into his own. You don't want what I want to do to you, he thought savagely, despising himself as the memories of his hate and his love tried to mingle together. Memory served him, in his lustful rage, memories of his love beneath him, holding him down against the bed, both wrists clasped in one hand, thrusting between his open legs, swallowing his cries in a deep, penetrating kiss.

... _he hid the bruises from his father because he thought he wanted it. It was only later that he realised that his actions had perhaps been more out of shame..._

Hawke ground into his hand, pushing his face against the pillow in an effort to smother his own grunts of pleasure and disgrace. He gripped the sheets with his free hand, imagining the soft skin of Anders' wrists in his grasp, trying to hear the sharp moan the man would let loose as he squeezed tighter, pulled his arms higher, quickened his pace, felt that building heat, moved faster, harder, made him _feel it_...

... _the sharp pain, the intense pleasure. Everything mingled into one, dancing along his spine as he arched his back and choked, feeling the warm heat inside of him. He did not hear the door open, only felt the sudden rush of movement as his father pulled them apart and he was forced to stop Malcolm Hawke from outright murdering his best friend with his bare hands..._

It did not last, but then nothing ever did. Hawke was left, sweat cooling on his back and thighs, hand coated in the sticky fluid of his release, a slow, creeping shame building in his mind. There's a reason you had to imagine that, isn't there, he thought tiredly. Maker what is _wrong_ with me? he thought with a soft sigh, screwing his eyes shut. Old memories should stay shut, closed, locked away. I don't...I don't care about that. I care about Anders and I love him, that's what's important.

Even when he _is_ here we don't sleep together anyway, he tried to argue back against his own deflated sense of worth. It had been a while since they were intimate, enough to tell Hawke that he was being too demanding again. He knew that he used sex as an agenda, but sometimes it was just a genuine action, a result of his attraction. Yet most of the time, more recently, he wasn't sure he could tell the two apart, enough that it was a worrying thought. No wonder he isn't here, Hawke thought as he rolled to the cold side of the bed, hating that it sucked the heat from his skin, you're more fucked up than he is.

* * *

The sitting room was empty. Hawke frowned as he blinked the sleep from his eyes. He had been sure that Anders would return during the night, or perhaps early morning. Yet the couch had not been slept on, and none of the other spare rooms had been used. The mage had certainly not returned to their bed, that was certain, and Hawke was left even more irritated than he had been the night before. Exactly how much have I messed up this time? He wondered. What if that bastard Crummock told him I turned up and threatened him last night? That would go over swimmingly, Hawke thought as he trudged down the stairs in a black mood.

"Good morning, Messer," Bodahn greeted him jovially, even as Hawke simply nodded his reply, "a letter came for you this morning, awful official looking it is. I think it might be from the Knight Commander."

"I'll read it later," Hawke said, surly; the last thing he wanted right now was to hear from Meredith of all people, "have you seen Anders around?"

"Not this morning serrah," Bodahn replied, with a suspiciously blank look on his face; Hawke wasn't stupid enough to think Bodahn didn't know how bad things were, just that the dwarf was too polite to let on.

"Alright, thank you," Hawke sighed, "I'm heading out for the afternoon, would you please take any messages for me while I'm out? And...if Anders turns up could you give him this?"

He handed Bodahn the hastily scrawled and sealed letter he had written that morning, something he had been cowardly planning to leave beside Anders if he found him asleep, so that he wouldn't have to be there when the mage read it. Now he was passing off the responsibility again, which he knew all too well, and just hoped that Anders came home before he did. He'd rather not get into another lop sided argument with the mage if it was at all possible. Anders' inability to talk, yet another worry on top of the stack of worries which the man evoked in him, was something that only served to make Hawke feel worse whenever they argued. It was as if he always took advantage of the fact, knowing that Anders' own anger was mainly fuelled by his inability to communicate.

"Are you headed out now serrah?" Bodahn asked as he took the letter, slipping it into his pouch.

"Yes, uh, yes I'll be out until this afternoon," Hawke said, feeling a little uncomfortable, "I'm going to check on progress at the Bone Pit, make sure everything is running smoothly."

"Very good," Bodahn said, "I have a few errands to run but I should be here most of the day. Have a safe trip."

He hoped it would be safe, he _hoped_ everything went smoothly. The last thing he needed was that on his thoughts, bloody dragons turning up, _again_ , and running rampant throughout the mine. This was meant as an exercise in caution, as well as a rest from his more formal duties and worries. There was to be no drama in this excursion, he thought, yet, in the long run, no matter how farfetched it was, he was better safe than sorry, which was what had him traipsing back up the stairs to knock on Vael's door. The very act in and of itself only made him feel worse, knowing that he was doing so mainly because he had few other people to ask for help, what with Isabella out of town and Fenris and Anders disinclined to help him. What a sorry state you're in, he thought wearily as he waited for a reply.

"Yes?" the question was half awake at best, as was Sebastian Vael as he peered out of the doorway in naught but his sleeping trousers.

"I, uh..." Hawke trailed off, feeling his eyes wandering despite himself, taking in the toned chest and trousers low slung on his hips; he felt instantly mortified as he realised what he was doing, snapping his eyes back to the man's face and mumbling out, "never mind, you're tired, go back to sleep."

"No, that's not a problem, I should be up and about anyway," Sebastian said, his thick accent rough with sleep, "I'll be only a moment, let me get dressed."

Thank the Maker for _that_ , Hawke thought as the door closed and he shook his head. It's anything with a pulse for you, Garret Hawke, isn't it? Oh for fucks sakes, he thought angrily, leaning back against the wall opposite the door and waiting for Sebastian to reappear, I'm not that shallow.

You're not that shallow _yet_ , his conscience supplied. Hawke frowned and folded his arms. Shallow lust and desperation are two entirely different things, he thought decisively. Despite that, he continued, he was quite sure that Vael's was as straight as an arrow, rather fervently so, which only made the issue all the easier to deal with. Unless he's just in denial, Hawke thought with a smirk, then a genuine laugh to himself as he stood in the hallway, alone, shaking his head.

"What on earth am I even thinking about?" he said quietly, letting out another laugh.

Vael agreed to accompany him and together they headed to the Hanged Man. At least Varric is always up for an adventure, Hawke thought, reliable as the day is long. The pub was fairly quiet as they entered, heading up to Varric's suite. Hawke ignored the knowing look that Nora sent his way and sighed, hoping that there wasn't about to be a scene. Is Anders still here? He thought hopefully. Surely not, he's always too worried of what people think of him. I doubt slinking out of a room at the Hanged Man wearing someone else's clothes would be his style.

Hawke gave the crowd a cursory glance as he walked through, out of habit and necessity. He recognised them all, some regulars and some people he had known from his short stint as a resident of Lowtown. Good, Hawke thought, that means that Fenris's "sister" isn't here. It concerned him that the elf, normally so cautious and paranoid, would fall for something so obviously staged. Still, despite their argument on the matter, he was vigilant enough to keep an eye out for Fenris, even if he wouldn't appreciate the gesture. Still, as everything seemed to be calm and normal, no strangers or lurkers in the shadows, and no bad feeling in the air, he was sure that taking Varric out for one afternoon wouldn't break any deals.

"Well, well, if you two aren't up bright and early," Varric said as he and Sebastian sat down at the large table, "to what do I owe to the honour?"

"We're headed out," Hawke said, accepting the crusty roll of bread that Varric tossed to him from the large plate of assorted baked goods sitting before him on the table, "just an inspection of the Bone Pit, I do it every two weeks. I thought I'd take a little back up, just in case."

"Just in case? I remember the last time you said that," Varric said with a sly smile.

"And it was warranted then, wasn't it? I'd say it's still warranted now," Hawke said, to which Varric nodded, still smiling.

"Why exactly _do_ you need so many people just for a routine inspection?" Sebastian asked with a quirked eyebrow, pulling Hawke's gaze to him.

Varric laughed, shaking his head, while Sebastian looked a little bemused and Hawke felt a little better about his situation. Things were seemingly normal, even if just for this short while, and it was appreciated.

"You mean you didn't tell him?" Varric asked.

"There may have been a slight case of dragons one time," Hawke said with a grin, turning to Sebastian, "big ones too. You still up for it?"

"You're never a dull man to be around, Serrah Hawke," Sebastian smiled in return, "I'd be ashamed of myself if I refused such an offer!"

"Excellent," Hawke said, returning his gaze to Varric, "then hurry up and finish your breakfast, we'll head out when you're ready."

"Wait, just the three of us?" Varric asked, his look significant, "Where's blondie?"

"Yes," Hawke said back, obviously avoiding the question, "just the three of us."

"No mage? That seems risky even for you Hawke," Varric said with a shrug, taking Hawke's evasion in his stride, "the last time we ran into trouble at the Pit you almost lost your arm. No healer might be a bad plan."

Hawke opened his mouth to argue back but ended up closing it instead. Varric was right and Hawke knew it, which was why it grated badly against his calm. The fact that Varric had asked where Anders was meant that he hadn't seen him. Great, Hawke thought, that's _great_. Forcing me to go and look are we, my love? Want to make me kill someone before breakfast is even over? Yet there was little chance of finding Anders now, not before they had to set out. The man new how to hide himself when he didn't want to be found, and Hawke would be damned if he would spend the entire day searching the city for him. However, that decision didn't leave many options open.

"I hear that Callum helps out down at the clinic," Varric continued, making Hawke's eyes narrow, "maybe he could help."

"That seems a tad presumptuous," Hawke said tightly, trying to think of a good reason not to bring the man; oh I can think of one hundred reasons, Hawke thought, but none of them are rational, "you don't know if he's any good or not just from hearsay."

"Well you must know," Varric said cunningly, "you traveled with him. I heard that he kept you alive for quite a while, when you were ill..."

"I get it," Hawke snapped, noting Varric's look of nonchalance and Sebastian's mild surprise at Hawke's change in mood, "I'll bloody ask him," he stood from the table stiffly and walked towards the corridor, adding facetiously, "Seems it's a habit that at least two people hate each other's guts when we visit the Bone Pit. Why break with tradition?"

The more he thought about it, the more it seemed like this could be to his advantage in some way. Crummock was the last person on earth he would consider spending time with, never mind fighting alongside, but if there was a chance of danger then perhaps there was a chance for the man to ever-so-accidentally-be-eaten-by-dragons, as opposed to having to outright murder him. Hawke smirked darkly at his own perverse humour. Oh I should be so fucking lucky. Also, he thought with a far more focused agenda, if I take him with me he won't be here, trying to hunt down Anders and exert his influence. Yes, perhaps this proposal is looking up somewhat after all.

Callum was already dressed when he answered the door, and the words he let slip only made Hawke's narrow eyed stare all the more heated.

"Where did you go..?" Callum snapped his mouth shut when he turned to find someone he did not expect staring at him.

"I dare say that question wasn't for me," Hawke said silkily.

"He isn't here, if that's what you're wondering," Callum said, making to close the door; Hawke stuck his heavy boot into the gap to stop it with a weighty thunk.

"Actually I'm here with a request," Hawke said, forcing the animosity out of his voice.

"Sorry, I'm not in the mood to drop dead, thank you very much," Callum smiled tersely before trying once more to close the door.

"How witty," Hawke said acidly, keeping his appeal peremptory, not in any mood to extend their talk, "but actually it's entirely genuine. I need a healer, someone to come with us out to the Bone Pit, a mine outside of town. Could be dangerous."

It didn't take him by surprise when the mage didn't jump at the chance. Who would? Hawke thought. If I were in his position I think I'd laugh. Callum did stop trying to close the door on his foot, however, which he took as an encouraging sign.

"I can think of better, less threatening things to do with my day," Callum replied.

"How ungracious of you," Hawke taunted, knowing it would leave a mark, "allowing your host to go off unequipped, no healer at his back, and after all Varric has done on your behalf."

"Oh, we're playing this game are we?" Callum said flatly, "Wonderful."

"We're only playing if you say we are," Hawke said, squaring his shoulders, "or we could be gentlemen about this. I need your help and I'm asking for it, that's all. How about that instead?"

"Seems a bit too straightforward," Callum replied bluntly, to which Hawke's lips tightened into a flat line, "but I suppose I've never been one to deny someone help, especially since he's given me so much already, and if you're going to be civil then I suppose...fine, fine, just give me a minute."

The door closed and Hawke smirked. I swear I could talk a templar into converting if I wanted to, he thought smugly. The fact that Anders hadn't been there when Callum opened the door only served as a bonus on Hawke's part.

* * *

"Think we might have hit a new vein, serrah, down in the second Westerly crosscut between tunnels one and two," Mord told him, "although the rest of that way is barren as Sundermount."

Hawke had thankfully found no distress or blood or screaming at the mining site. Everyone was working rather productively and even seemed to be fairly happy to see him. The man he had left in charge, Mord Valdasson, was a crafty character but Hawke trusted him enough to know that his expertise were second to none. The fact that he had found any ore at all in this hell pit of a mine was enough to have Hawke feel vindicated in his choice of manager.

"That's good news, but I want you to have it surveyed first, before you start any proper excavation," Hawke said, looking at the well worn and scrawled upon map of the mines, spread upon the table before them, "the last thing we need is a cave in and, after last time, I think it's prudent to check."

"My thoughts exactly," Mord nodded, "I've got our team set up and we were plannin' to head down tomorrow, put up the struts and test for wat'r. Believe me serrah, floodin's just as bad as a cave in."

He knew when he had taken the mine over that it would never present anything but a loss. Most of the easy to reach ore veins were long since depleted, mined by hordes of slaves during the Tevinter's reign over Kirkwall. Now all that was left was either too deep or too dangerous to mine, only scraps left here and there that were worth the effort. Still, what with the blow to his funds that had been caused by their expedition to the Anderfels, it was good news to be told that the investment he had made for the sake of the welfare of the miners was finally going to give him something back.

"Seems like everything's working out well here," Varric said as Hawke walked back to their small group, Sebastian looking over the miners with a keen eye while Callum sat on a rock and drew in the dirt with a stick, "big change from the last time I saw it."

"Well I think anything would be an improvement over charred corpses and dragons setting up roost," Hawke said with a smile, "I just hope that there aren't any more accidents."

"I don't think this place could get any unluckier if it tried," Varric smirked, "after..."

He tailed off, his eyes moving from Hawke to something behind the man. Hawke frowned, opening his mouth to ask what was wrong, but instead turned on hearing what Varric must have seen. The sound of horses hooves, galloping, made him turn his head and observe the thick set brown horse trampling down the dirt path, rushing through the miners, scattering them as they fled its path. Hawke rushed forwards to try and grab at the incensed creature's bridle. The mare slowed as Hawke approached but did not calm herself, instead whinnying and trying to rear up.

"Whoa girl, calm down," Hawke said gently, trying to get nearer but backing away when the horse tossed her head and let out a rough snort; the miners had stopped, all eyes on him. Hawke let the horse trot agitatedly around in a circle, wearing down her own panic, which was when he saw the blood coating her side. It didn't seem to be from any wound on the animal, which only spoke ill of what had happened to her rider. Bandits? Hawke thought, but what would they be doing all the way out here? They normally stick to the coast..."there girl, easy now, that's it. It's alright everyone, just a stray, keep to your work and I'll handle this."

The horse eventually stopped, champing agitatedly on the bit in her mouth, but allowed Hawke to take hold of the loose reigns and lead her away towards the table and the others who were now watching him with concern, even Callum had stood up and taken notice. The miners slowly began their routines once more, although their boisterous chatter was somewhat dimmed to whispered words and cautious glances.

"What on earth?" Sebastian said as he observed the blood, "There's been an attack?"

"Seems that way," Hawke said as he tied the horse to the stump he normally used when he rode Bryn out for inspections, "but who or why I don't know. There must be something that'll say whose..."

He stopped talking mainly because as soon as he saw the crest he knew exactly who the horse belonged to and it made his blood run a little cold. He ran his hand over the embossed crest upon the saddle and hoped he was wrong, even as the initials beneath it spoke volumes.

"What's wrong?" Callum asked, his tone taught, "Whose is it?"

"It's Donnic's," Hawke said warily, "I mean, it's a guard's horse but...I'm sure this is Donnic's horse."

"That's not good," Varric said seriously, "quick, we better go look for where the rider fell, find out what's going on."

"Right," Hawke agreed, shaking himself from the shock; if Donnic was hurt then Aveline wouldn't be far behind. The thought was not reassuring, "I'll take the horse, it'll be faster, and I can check the road and get back to town, see if there's any news. You three see if you can find anything on the road back that I might have missed."

"Take me with you," Callum said, surprising Hawke somewhat; the mage must have seen it in Hawke's eyes as he explained himself quickly, "if you find someone hurt it's better I be there, you won't be able to heal anything serious with a potion or two."

He wanted to argue but his moral imperative wouldn't let him. He looked at the horse, a sturdy breed, tall and muscular. She can take us both I suppose, Hawke thought, and if Donnic is in need of help I would be of no use. This is no time for personal grudges.

"Alright, come on then, there's no time to waste," he said, glad that Callum could be professional when the need arose.

He hoisted himself up on the stirrup and swung himself into the saddle, moving forwards to allow room for Callum to do the same. The horse protested as the tall man hoisted himself up, taking a few quick steps back, but thankfully did not throw them. Callum leaned forwards and pressed himself against Hawke's back, making the rogue move uncomfortably. This day just gets better and better, he thought as he kicked the horse's flank and spurred her into a trot, then a canter, restraining her from a full out gallop so as to make sure neither of them fell from their precarious seat on the saddle. Callum reach forwards and grabbed onto Hawke's sides out of instinct as they were jostled by the horse and the uneven terrain, and he ignored their closeness in favour of worrying about what on earth was going on.

It was only as they reached the top of the dirt road that led down into the deep hole where the mine's mouth opened, that they saw it. Hawke pulled the horse to a sharp stop, forcing her to whinny and dance on her front feet unhappily. Hawke paid no attention, instead staring ahead at the landscape before them, leading down the hill and out over the plains and the coastline, back towards the walls of Kirkwall and the city displayed like a picture book. Only it wasn't a picturesque view.

"Maker's breath," Callum said in shock, "what has happened?"

The smoke spewed out into the air like runnels of filth, heavy and thick and unnaturally black. It sprouted from the centre of the city but Hawke could see others, he could hear the sharp and unnatural sounds of what sounded like thunder, loud and banging. It must have been covered, he thought numbly, by the sounds of the miners, pickaxe against stone...what is happening? We were only gone for an hour or so!

"No time to speculate," Hawke said decisively, "we have to get back to the city, come on!"

He risked the gallop, no matter how tightly Callum had to latch on to him just to stay on the horse's back. There were only two other thoughts that had sprung into his mind as the shock wore off and the faint smell of smoke became apparent on the air.

Fenris and his sister. Fenris and the Magister he was so desperate to slay.

How could I be so foolish? He admonished himself. I thought everything was settled, I thought he knew better, I thought _I_ knew him better! Maker I hope I'm wrong, he thought, I hope it's just a fire. Yet the bloodied horse of a guard, someone who they hadn't yet seen on the road, was a sign that things were surely far worse than a simple fire.

"There! Stop!" Callum's voice brought him out of himself and forced him to slow the horse; she resisted him but Hawke fought with the reigns, gritting his teeth and pulling the horse's head to the right and then the left. It was only as he finally managed to slow her to a walk and Callum jumped from the saddle that he saw what had made the taller man call out.

"Fuck," he said savagely, climbing down himself and running towards the man Callum was now bent over, lying prone in the short grass, covered in his own blood; he dropped to one knee and looked at the man's face as Callum placed his hands over the man's chest and let out some sort of spell, "it is Donnic. _Damn_ it! What the fuck is going on? Is he alive?"

"Barely," Callum said, looking the man over, his expression serious, "there's a lot of blood, he has...a wound here in his chest, and another in the thigh. I think he might have lost too much."

"Don't let him die," Hawke said fervently, noting the selfishness of his statement after he had said it.

"I'll try," Callum replied reasonably, with the tempered tone that Anders' always used with him whenever he was treating a patient, "if I can get him somewhere safe I can treat him, somewhere warm where I can try and get him conscious, heal this wound in his leg and chest, there's a chance."

"Varric and Sebastian will be here soon," Hawke said, "I don't think it's a good idea to take him on the horse."

"No, too risky," Callum agreed, concentrating on his actions, "they can help me carry him back to the mine, at least there we can take him into one of the huts, wrap him up. Anything else might only make it worse. If Anders were here I'm sure he'd have a better idea of what to do, he's much better with trauma like this, he always closes them up like clockwork at the clinic..."

It shouldn't have been a big leap. Hawke listened with half an ear to the rest of Callum's talk, but his mind had slipped away, back into a memory that had been jolted into place by taller mage's words. The clinic, Anders. His fight with Fenris. Seeing Fenris at the clinic. Anders being cagey with him, shrugging him off. He hadn't seen Fenris in days, he hadn't seen Fenris...he'd thought everything was fine, he'd _thought_ everything was alright.

_A subtle shrug as Anders leaned into him and basically brushed off his questions as to Fenris's sudden appearance from the clinic door. He had let it slide because he had been too busy feeling guilty about how he and Fenris had fought, and later by Anders' anger at finding Sebastian Vael in their home. Assuaging his anger had taken precedence over finding out why on earth the elf would be visiting Anders, of all people._

Anders, he thought desperately as he stood, hearing Callum asking him where he was going. Maker he isn't that _stupid_ , Hawke thought desperately, tell me he isn't that stupid.

"I have to get back to the city," Hawke said gravely, "I think there might be...I have to go. Look after him!"

He didn't head any of Callum's shouts, instead hurrying up into the saddle of the horse who had been sitting docile by the road, looking towards her master. She reared, forcing Hawke to grab her mane to keep himself seated, and as soon as her hooves hit the ground she was flying. Hawke held on with a steely grip and braced himself. Don't let it be what I fear, he thought, don't let them be hurt.

The memory of a pair of worried, truthful eyes staring into his.

The thought that he could be so careless, so arrogant, to allow this to even be a possibility.

The feeling of something he could never bear to let go, to lose.

_"...I love you," Anders had said frankly, "I always have."_


	8. Harrowing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is written from many different points of view, each marked by that persons name in italics at the start of each section.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended Music: 
> 
> I don't often recommend this but, considering the content of this chapter it works well. It was written to a song from the soundtrack of Trigun called 'Blue Summers'. It's a wonderfully creepy piece of music. Listen as you read the last parts of this chapter to get a good atmosphere.

_Anders_

It wasn't the same fear, no, that wasn't the same. The sick twisting in his gut as he rounded every corner only to find shining steel bodies patrolling the empty streets. The sight that made him skip back behind stone walls and catch his breath as his heart hammered. The sight of so many enemies lining the streets of the city he called home, feeling once more like an intruder instead of someone who belonged. The fear that he couldn't run without being caught, and yet without running he would never reach his goal in time and Fenris...

Anders cut his thought short as he walked quickly down the main street in Lowtown, his breathing and his footsteps unnaturally loud. It was not the same fear as he used to feel when he ran from the Circle as a young man but the essence was the same. The feeling of everything being magnified. His heart beat and he felt as if he could feel the blood coursing within his own veins. Anders threw a quick glance over his shoulder and found the two templars still following him closely. He mentally cursed and wished, despite their pretence of protection, that they weren't there. Having to look out for templars at his front did not make having templars at his back any more appealing. They had not spoken to him since leaving the Gallows, on a slow, torturous boat ride to Lowtown, but he had heard them muttering to each other. It was not a promising partnership as far as Anders was concerned.

The streets were empty, ominously so. There were no people straying through the city, no sound but for the harsh cawing of crows and the distant sounds of shouted orders. No demons, no magister, no battle. It was perhaps more disturbing that those sounds be absent. It felt...sterile, Anders thought, it felt wrong. Then there it was, the sound of tramping metal boots. Anders flattened himself against the wall and darted his eyes around the marketplace. Hide, he thought instinctively, and darted towards a nearby alleyway which slipped up between two stalls, not paying any heed for his escort. He saw them just as he slipped into the gloom of the alley, twelve or so templars descending the rubble strewn stairs before, what had once been, the Hanged Man. The sight, however brief, of the ruined building made him pause.

_Always so assured, so very strong and driven by fury. To watch Fenris fall to the ground with a look of abject horror and pain upon his face sat ill in his mind like a barbed thorn._

He waited like a rabbit in a hole until the steel clad dogs had passed. He felt that the gloom of the alleyway stuck to him somehow. The pale sunlight did nothing to wash it away as he stepped back out cautiously.

"Hey! Where did you slip off to?" Anders looked round quickly to find his escort rushing up to him from the opposite direction that the other templars had taken; it was the first thing they had directly addressed towards him and Anders didn't exactly feel the friendliness in the man's tone. His face was hidden beneath the faceless helmet, as was hers, making them indistinguishable from each other. Indistinguishable from the enemy. Anders kept quiet, not out of choice, and looked away towards the Hanged Man. Eventually the templar continued, his tone gruff, "Huh, it's like that, is it? Never mind. Keep going. We've got our eye on you, mage."

For once Anders did as he was told. He kept going. With every step he tried to believe that this would work. He would find Fenris, he would rescue him and they would escape and things would work out somehow, they always did in the end, and then...

He was gone.

Anders stared down at the patch of dusty, shadowed stone and breathed shallowly through his nose while his fingers clenched and unclenched, his back pressed to the wall. Fuck, he thought viscerally, _fuck._ There was a smeared trail of gore that led further into the bowels of the dark alleyway but, on following it, Anders found nothing. It stopped at the other end and seemed, to all intents and purposes, to disappear. The one thing he had been clinging to, hoping beyond hope that it would serve him as leverage against the Magister who, to all intents and purposes, was far out of his league in a straight up fight, was gone.

Anders heard the heavy, clanking boot tread of his templar escort following him and gripped the wall to his left with fingers still smeared in dry blood. The sound sent a thrill of conditioned fear through his body that he detested. He closed his eyes and tried to calm down but the tingling nausea that crept along his skin whenever he remembered exactly where he was and what was happening, was enough to force his heartbeat faster and his set his nerves on edge.

The templars followed him as dogs followed limping prey, words sharp and cold. Anders hadn't felt this uptight and worried since, well...since Rolan. Yet the situation now was considerably more dire, which was saying something as far as Anders was concerned. What do I do? He thought quickly, his mind rushing. What do I do now?

The city was overrun with the enemy; Anders knew that he could only rely on his escort as far as Cullen's reach protected him. Anders didn't trust them just because Cullen did and he thought that to be the safest and most prudent decision. He had no idea about the internal power struggles of the Gallows' templar regiments, of who would betray who for the chance to gain access to rank and command, and he did not wish to find out. At that moment he tried his very best to ignore the building threat around him and focus on one thing: taking Fenris back from the Magister, one way or another.

Yet getting to the small alleyway where he now stood had been such a fraught task that the idea of struggling up to Hightown seemed an insurmountable one. How many times had he rounded a corner, heedless of the danger in his panic, and run straight into a templar regiment patrolling the now empty streets like steel hounds in a hunting pack? All faceless helmets would turn to him and he felt himself caught under their stare. This wasn't as it should be, he wasn't made for this. He was made for running from templars, for escaping and taking others with him. He wasn't made for turning around and driving himself further into the beast's lair. He wasn't made for mindless heroics, that was Hawke's area of expertise.

The thought only worried him further. He wished that Hawke was nearby, he wished that he would appear, he wished that he could have someone that he trusted with his life at his back instead of the enemy, he _wished_. Wishing isn't going to get you anywhere, he thought angrily as he stared at the brooding sky and watched as the sun was enveloped by dark clouds rising from the south.

I have no time, he thought as he ignored his companions and hurried onwards, making the snap decision to waste no further time running through templar infested streets looking for the injured man, an enemy, who was the only bargaining chip Anders felt he had left. I don't even know what Danarius wants, Anders thought as he ran blindly towards the mansion district of Hightown. The Magister's intentions were far too muddied with intrigue to be as obvious as Anders first thought. To travel all this way from the Imperium, to make himself so very obvious to the templars and the guard, flaunting his power so as to be able to return to the very place he had chosen so carefully before.

The mansion, it's air thick with magic while simultaneously thin to the Veil. There's something more, Anders thought as he ran, panting, under the midday sun through empty streets while the distant sound of shouted orders and the wailing of demons set his teeth on edge.

* * *

_Hawke_

"Hawke, thank the Maker! What in the Black took you so long?"

Aveline looked so happy and relieved to see him that Hakwe felt instantly grieved that he was the carrier of bad news. The memory was still fresh in his mind, of the day his brother fell and he was forced to watch Aveline kill the man she loved before he became something he hated. It had been a different feeling back then; too little time to feel sorry for someone you barely knew when you were too busy dealing with your own sorrow. Hawke looked down to the Captain of the Guard as she took hold of his horses reigns and couldn't help but feel weary as she seemed to realise exactly whose horse he was atop.

"Donnic is alive," Hawke said quickly, making Aveline's sharp blue eyes snap back to him, "we found him half way to the Bone Pit. I won't lie, he's badly injured, but he's being taken care of."

Aveline said nothing, lowering her eyes to stare at the nothing before her as Hawke quickly dismounted. When she spoke next her face was hard and her voice controlled.

"Good," she said, "good. I couldn't spare the men to mount a search party."

"What is going on Aveline?" Hawke asked, trying to follow her example and keep himself calm, even as thoughts of his friends rushed through his mind, "Tell me what happened."

Unfortunately there did not seem to be much more information here, at the West Gate, as there was before he got there. Demon was the word which caught his ear and made his heart sink with mitigated fear. Oh Maker, he thought as he swallowed and listened closely, then it is true.

"They were everywhere Hawke," Aveline was telling him as she led him towards the small guard barracks, past a troop of four wary eyed guards who held their weapons ready, "and it was quick, no warning. One minute I was here with Harrid, changing the guard, and the next Donnic comes riding down with...with...shouting about a Pride demon in the square and something about the Hanged Man in ruins! I don't know the specifics because I haven't been able to leave here. I've delegated squads and sent them out to try and secure sectors of the city and break through to the headquarters in Hightown, but it seems like we're at a loss. No one has reported back from there. Everything's gone quiet now but I think it's only a matter of time before something else jumps up out of the Fade. The templars have been helping, they've been deployed all throughout the city, but we still don't seem to be able to find the source."

He had stayed silent, perhaps to let Aveline finish, or perhaps to try and stem the sick feeling he had in his gut. They stopped in a small courtyard from which Hawke could suddenly hear high pitched screaming in the not too far distance. Aveline was conversing quickly and sharply with a young guard while Hawke swallowed and wished he knew what to do.

"Then get them down here so we can start evacuating!" Aveline snapped, making the younger guard nod quickly and try and mask her own fright and panic, "We can't just leave these people in there, we need to get them out before something worse happens!"

When Hawke caught her arm as she turned, the younger guard scurrying away to complete her orders, Aveline's confused gaze fell on him and Hawke wished that he had a solution and not only a hopeful answer.

"I think I know who might be behind this," he said, making Aveline's eyes harden.

* * *

_Anders_

It had always been an innocent time, by comparison. Perhaps too reckless and free, and not in the ways that mattered. Anders had liked to think that there had been a time when everything was simple, when he knew where he stood and the consequences were...limited.

" _Haven't you ever thought about it?"_

The question had been asked in the tone of voice he reserved for seeming older than he was, one which he used to make younger apprentices feel smaller and himself more mature by comparison. It was a tone he never thought he would ever have taken with Karl, of all people.

" _No, no of course not. I mean I would take it if it were possible, who wouldn't but..."_ Karl had paused and given him a serious, quizzical look, _"and I know you feel that way to."_

" _Shows how much you think you know me."_

" _What is that supposed to mean?"_ his friend had said scornfully and yet without malice, _"For goodness sakes you can't be serious! Don't you ever listen to anything anyone tells you?"_

" _And that_ proves _how much you don't know me."_

Under the watchful eyes of his jailors he had crept, seeking out the carpeted floor with his shapeless slippers so as to avoid noisy footsteps, holding his breath whenever voices made themselves heard. There was no way to know what was at the end of the corridor but, as Karl had proved to him only minutes before, Anders had realised that he no longer cared.

By the Black itself he would not spend another moment in this jail, not another moment of his stolen life would be lent to artifice, folly and this stale existence. He would be free to do what he wanted, _when_ he wanted with whomever he wanted anywhere he liked.

That naivety, as a concept, could be so strong was something he had never considered as he slipped across the threshold under the veil of a shroud spell, enough to make him seem of little consequence to the troop of templars with whom he walked out of the front door. It hadn't been until he was being dragged from the water on the opposite shore of the lake by gauntleted hands and hauled back to the Circle dripping wet, shivering and angry, that the full force of his decision hit him.

It hadn't been until that moment that he realised the small sliver of his innocent naivety which he had managed to cling to was all that he had left of who he had been before his life was irrevocably changed against his will; for that reason he idealistically continued in his foolhardy mission to brazenly flaunt his ability to remain indomitable. He endured because that was the only weapon he could wield when, time after time, he was hauled back in disgrace, hands bound and eyes somewhat duller. Only after his year of hell did he consider giving in to the madness that lay deep down, nestled snugly beside the very sliver of reckless youth which had kept him going all this time.

Yet, in the few moments of consciousness he had snatched in the side room they had carried him to, the stench of blood still fresh on his clothes and the suddenness of being somewhere other than his cell making him dizzy and disoriented, laying upon the bed still with the feeling of the dagger in his chest, Karl's words were stark but, unfortunately, entirely relevant.

" _Enough, Anders,"_ he had said as he gripped the mage's hand, his tone urgent and sad, _"tell me it's enough now."_

Karl had never understood and, in truth, Anders wondered if it was because the man didn't have the same spark of rebellion festering inside of him. Karl was content to be who he was, where he was, and silently rage against the establishment. Anders knew that it wasn't possible for him. He needed his rebellion, it made him strong, it gave him what others did not have. The spirit to fight, even if only for himself.

There was no giving up.

It would never be enough.

"Oi, just where do you think you're going?"

Something he wished he could have avoided, but it was inevitable that it would happen. Anders had quickly fled, as fast as he could, from the scene of his botched kidnapping and run towards the Upper Mansion District in a vain hope that he alone would be enough to stop this madness. What he would do _when_ he found the Magister was anyone's guess, but Anders didn't think there was time to plan that far ahead. His templar escort had followed, cursing him under their breath.

They had made it surprisingly far without encountering too much resistance. There were templar patrols but Anders knew how to evade them, no matter how much they increased the closer they came to Hightown, no matter how much the fear they instilled made him simultaneously angry and sad. In fact it had been sickeningly easy a few of the times, outwitting twelve or so templars, scraping by without being detected and not caring about the two escorts who were lagging behind. Then it all came to an end when he reached Hightown. Anders balled his fists and cursed himself as he stared straight at a group of thirty or so templars filing the main market square, their Lieutenant, or so it seemed, staring at him as he addressed him. Anders went cold.

"I'm talking to you there," the Lieutenant said as he broke away from the group and walked towards Anders, a few of his subordinates looking over with interest, "this area is under curfew, you'd better get back inside, it's dangerous to be out here."

A quick glance over his shoulder made him feel marginally better, despite his misgivings. His escort ran into view just as the Lieutenant reached him and pulled off his helmet, revealing a face older than his voice suggested, a deep scar running over his left eye and down his cheek, dishevelled grey hair lying lank over his forehead. The man looked up as the two templars jogged to a stop beside Anders, who instinctively tried to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. His escort saluted.

"At ease," the Lieutenant said, "what's going on here?"

"We're under orders from the Knight Captain to escort this mage," the male templar spoke up.

"Mage, eh?" the Lieutenant looked to Anders with a hard stare, "And you haven't restrained him?"

"We were told he was leading us to the Magister who caused the explosion in the city centre, sir," the female spoke, her voice disdainful, "but so far he's just been giving us the run-around."

Anders stiffened. Shit, he thought quickly, I need to get out of here, but how? That his templar escort didn't trust him came as no surprise but it did come as a huge disadvantage. Especially at a time like this, surrounded by templars, and _so close_ to his goal that he could practically see the tops of the spires on Fenris's mansion. There was an odd feel in the air, an itching at the back of his neck that, at first, he had thought was due to fear, but now it seemed much more familiar. The feeling of the Fade seeping through, the feeling of power tearing the fabric of the real. The Magister was surely close, but unfortunately there was a barrier, thirty or so of them, between him and his goal.

"I see," the Lieutenant said grimly, "Cullen always is too soft with them," he gave Anders a look that the mage in no way appreciated, "seems like he's put his faith in the wrong place. I'll lend you two of my unit. Escort this mage back to the Gallows and see that he is secured. The last thing we need is an apostate running around added into the mix. Thomas, Renard!"

It was a mix of many things which ended in his rash decision. Panic, anger, disdain, fear, insult. There were surely many more, but Anders was surprised by himself at the calm which came over him as he stared at the two approaching templars, who had been called by the Lieutenant, and his faceless templar escort. The thought of everything slipping into unimaginable chaos purely because of their stupidity, the thought of Fenris being hauled back into a life of slavery beneath a cruel, horror of a man purely because they were not willing to trust a mage. Anders looked up and gave them a look of cold disdain which was enough to give his escort pause. Fuck this, he thought as he raised his right hand and let the power build, how about I show you what it means to fear a mage.

* * *

_Hawke_

He was perhaps not the person Hawke had been hoping to run across, but at the very least it was a familiar face. A familiar face who may have more information than either of them did. After Hawke had relayed what he knew of the fear of a Magister trap for Fenris involving his sister, he and Aveline had set off for Lowtown, hoping to find any clue as to what had happened at the Hanged Man. It should have been no real surprise to find Cullen and his men securing the area.

"Serrah Hawke," Cullen said with a tiredness to his voice that Hawke had never heard from the man, as he pulled off his stifling helmet.

"Cullen," Hawke said without reverence, "what's going on here?"

"You mean you don't know?" Cullen said as he pointed two of his templars towards the entrance of the Hanged Man, the two running off to climb awkwardly in over the rubble, "There's a Magister in Kirkwall, that's what happened. I'm surprised you didn't know, considering it was your mage that gave me the information in the first place."

Those two words were enough to make Hawke take a step forwards and get into Cullen's personal space, his voice a mixture of aggressive pleading. It was as he feared, which only made his nerves more fraught than they should be.

"Then it is true," Aveline said, her tone taught but reserved, even as her eyes showed her worry, "this is terrible."

"Anders? Where is he!" Hawke butted in quickly; Cullen took a step back but it seemed more out of a need to back away from Hawke's intensity more than any real intimidation, "Tell me Cullen, this is important!"

"I don't really know, not anymore," Cullen said as he walked towards the Hanged Man, forcing Hawke and Aveline to follow, "I spoke to him at the Gallows..."

" _What_?" Hawke said in disbelief, "you brought him in? Is this a joke, because it isn't bloody funny!"

"My men brought him in," Cullen said, stopping and turning to show a look of indignation on his face; the templars behind him continued to rush in and out of the Hanged Man like bees in and out of a hive, "right after the destruction of this building a troop of my templars, who were patrolling in the area, found him in front of one of the alleys which heads towards the docks. He was brought in as any other suspect would be, considering the severity of the circumstances. It was only after I interrogated him that I managed to have him tell me what was actually happening. You're lucky it was I that found him Hawke. I know others who would not have been so believing."

"I'm sure you think I should be so fucking lucky, Cullen, but right now I don't feel it," Hawke said tightly, "where is he? What did he tell you?"

"I told you, I don't know where he is," Cullen said, "he told me that he knew where the Magister would be and that he had something he could use as leverage, a relative. It all happened rather...fast. I was requested by the Knight Commander to lead a compliment down to investigate the explosion, so it was all I could do to send two of my templars with him and hope that he was telling the truth. Seven of my templars are dead here, Hawke. I have my responsibilities too."

Hawke had noticed the blood on the rubble, but had tried not to look too closely. The thought of it being from Anders or Fenris ran circles round in his head. A Magister, this was insane. The whole City was at risk with someone of that power running around free, especially one with an agenda. Hawke closed his gauntleted hands into fists and tried desperately to think of where to go next.

"He didn't give you any hint at all of where he intended to go?" Hawke heard Aveline ask, "The sooner we locate this Magister the sooner we can restore order. Also there is a significant risk to one of my companions. We believe the Magister may be here on a vendetta."

"If I had any clue as to where this Magister was, Guard Captain, I wouldn't be here talking to you right now," Cullen said as one of the templars who had been buzzing around the Hanged Man ran up to them, "what is it Peter?"

"Sir," Peter said, saluting sharply, "I found this amongst the rubble."

Sometimes fortuitous things did happen, and sometimes Hawke wondered if there was someone looking out for him. He wasn't one to always believe in the serendipity of coincidence. Somehow things fell into place, every now and then, and it made him question whether or not the Maker was really as benevolent a deity as he had given up on thinking he was. The templar, Peter, handed over the small key and, despite his agitation, he recognised it even as Cullen looked at it with a blank stare. It was the key to Fenris's front door, he knew because he had tied to small strip of red cloth through the hole of the small bronze key. Something he still wasn't sure he should have done, considering the memories it evoked. Yet Fenris couldn't have left it at the Hanged Man, because the elf had told him when they returned from the Anderfels that he had lost it.

Hawke felt his shoulders set, held his breath, and hoped that he was right. There was no time to try and find Merrill, even if he wished he could have the mage at his back. Hawke grabbed Aveline by the arm as Cullen turned to speak to his subordinates.

He was never more glad than when she followed him with only a whispered question,

"Where to Hawke?"

* * *

_Anders_

He placed his hand over the deep hole speared into his side and tried to stop the bleeding, limping up the steep stairs on a twisted ankle. The blood soaked into his shirt and through into his jacket. The healing magic he tried to use left him feeling sick, the blood magic in his system sitting like a leach inside of him, feeding from his latent power. Keep moving he thought determinedly even as the faintness washed over him, keep moving, don't stop.

Taking on thirty templars had been a bad idea, now that he looked back on it. Ten were dead for certain, he wasn't sure how many were injured. None were following, that was all he cared about in the long run. It had been someone from behind who had kicked him down, another who had driven the spear through him. He had killed them both in a fiery crushing prison, the spell born from the instinctual reaction to the shock and pain. He had felt the sickness within himself as he tried to fight, desolate without Justice at his back. Truly he had missed the spirit's power at that moment, his fervent battle cry. Every step was agony, he could hear his laboured breathing as he tripped to the ground, catching himself awkwardly against the hard, stone steps. Up, he thought as he ground his teeth and pushed up on blood slicked hands, get _up_.

_The world splayed out before him and he drank it in as the sun set and the moon rose. He stood atop the hill as the rain soaked into his hair, closed his eyes and spread his arms wide. He was free of the Circle, he was free of the templars, he was nothing but a man on the earth, like any other. The wind curled around him and he drank in the cool air._

There was no end to the fight. He knew this as easily as he breathed in and out, as he put one foot in front of the other, as he dragged himself to the head of the steps and stared forebodingly at the front of the unassuming mansion, tucked into the corner, the dark light of the clouds reflecting in the silent windows. Yet the power there, the humming frequency that worked its way familiarly through his body, resonating with the magic inside of him, sat like a dark aura, coalescing and breaking apart as he watched. There are foul practices alive here, Anders thought as he managed to pull himself up the wall next to him, leaning on his good leg and coughing roughly, wincing at the agony of his wound. He curled inwards instinctively and grasped at his side, feeling the blood pulsing out of his body with every beat of his heart.

_He watched as they carried out her body. He felt numb, confused as to what to do. The sound of a baby crying in the distance set his teeth on edge. The templars had passed him as if he weren't there at all. He looked away as her face came into view, eyes closed and lips slightly blue, the ligature marks left by rope against her porcelain throat. The baby's cries became louder, hoarser. He had taken a moment to remember his friend's momentary look of pure love as she had stared down at her son, as Anders handed him to her, before the templars had taken him. He wasn't sure how long he stood there, staring into the nothingness before his eyes. How many had they lost to their own despair, mages forced to take their lives rather than live the farcical parody of a life which the Chantry forced upon them._

Can't go back, _won't_ go back. Anders hobbled forwards and balked as the feeling of the Fade grew immeasurably stronger and, with it, the stench of blood magic assaulted his senses. Stuck between two extremes he found himself striving against both. He would never submit to the Chantry, to the templars, but he would never submit to the tyranny of a magister. Anders was not naive enough to believe that mage rule would be any more just than that of the Chantry. All he wanted, he realised at that moment, as he tried not to pass out, was that he wanted his friend to be safe. The politics did not matter, not anymore. He did not care, not as he would have when Justice and he had been one. Maker let him be alive, Anders prayed to a deity he did not believe in.

" _I'm sorry," Cullen had said as Anders sat, staring out of the window as the rain drove down in sheets. It had been a ridiculous thing to say, spoken awkwardly and almost timidly. Anders hadn't responded at first, half out of disbelief and half out of lethargy. The wound in his chest had closed, where the dagger had sunk in so easily, but the scar remained._  
 _"Don't be so fucking stupid," he shook his head before looking to the surprised man, "it's not the first time you've carried a bloody corpse out of a cell, is it."_

_It had been more cruel than any direct assault against the man would have been. Cullen swallowed and left without another word, wounded more than Anders perhaps knew. Anders had felt no remorse as he turned to look back out of the window. The rain continued to fall. He remembered how it had felt in his hair as he stood atop the hill all those years ago. A feeling he would have again; no matter what, he would be free of this hell._

* * *

_Fenris_

There was movement, he could feel it in his body as the air swathed over him. His nose twitched. He smelled turpentine and varnish. Fresh paint. Softness against his bare skin as he came to a halt. He was laid down gently and yet could barely find the strength to open his eyes.

"Not long," a sickeningly familiar voice said as if to itself, "not long now."

He tried to move his arms, his legs, his head, but nothing worked. Even his fingers gave no response. He felt warm and somehow, sickeningly safe. His mind was traitorous. There was a feverish light-headedness making it difficult to think, and what little he could comprehend seemed insignificant. Yet he knew it was a lie, he knew something was wrong. That voice, Fenris thought, that _voice_.

The pain in his arm was dulled and yet he felt it nonetheless. He struggled to open his eyes, even as he felt the soft brush of material against his skin. His vision blurred as he peered through the slit of his eyelids and found the world aglow around him. Fenris breathed in a shaky breath and forced his eyes wider.

"No need to worry if he is awake," an unfamiliar voice spoke; someone else? Fenris thought warily. Where am I? What is happening to me? "the rite will not be affected."

"He deserves to suffer," the familiar voice spoke, becoming clearer as the pain grew more noticeable, as stinging turned to burning, and burning turned to agony, "fitting punishment, considering all the trouble you have caused me, my little wolf."

 _Danarius_ , the name flashed across his vision as the colour red. Fenris didn't know how he managed it but his right arm lifted from the ground and managed to grasp blindly at the material he could feel there. He snarled as it was pulled from his grasp and blinked away the blurriness from his eyes. Next he knew there was a hand around his throat and a knee against his chest, pushing the air from his lungs. He tried to struggle but the weakness was pervading. He felt sick, warmth creeping over his arm even as the fingers of his injured left arm became cold.

"Did I say you could move, slave?" Danarius was vaguely distinguishable through the haze of pain and his shadowy vision, his face a mere foot from Fenris's own; the elf tried to turn his head away but the hand merely tightened, causing him to let out a choked cry, "You will beg me for forgiveness before this is through. Of that I am sure."

He tried to reply, only managing a strangled, " _Fuck you_ " before the hand around his throat became a blow to his face which sent him reeling. He tasted blood and knew that the warmth on his arm was the same. A rite? Fenris's mind was spinning. Dear Maker, please, don't let this happen.

_He watched dispassionately as his Master sliced into the man on the stone slab. The man's mouth opened in a thick, gurgling scream and the blood gushed down onto the alter. Danarius did not stop cutting until the man stopped screaming, his eyes glazing over as his life left him._

The memory was a worse blow than any Danarius could have given him. He felt sick at the sudden recollection, shocked at its occurrence and its content. He let out a keening wail as he tried to move, desperate to escape, no matter what, yet he could not summon the energy to move more than a weak struggle. He looked about himself, head lolling from side to side, trying to find the source of the other voice, trying to get his bearings. What he found made him panic.

Bodies. To his left and his right he could make out bodies painted in red. He knew what this was. He knew he had seen this before. The stink of blood was becoming stronger and, as his vision began to clear, he felt something creep over him that he hadn't felt since the first day he had run from his Master.

Dread

* * *

_Anders_

A heady, retching smell drifted in the air like a haze. It was dim in the corridor, filled with boxes of tools and materials, barely any light to make his surroundings visible. A heady smell of turpentine was noticeable, thick cloths covering boxes filled with wood and stone. He crept forwards, trying to guess as to the location of the vile energy he could feel pulsing around him.

Anders caught himself against a heavy tarpaulin, bending forwards in a wave of agony as he coughed roughly, feeling something thick and metallic rushing up his throat. He choked as it spewed from him and out over his right hand as he reached up to cover his mouth. His fingers came away dripping with dark fluid in the gloom. I have to hurry, he thought weakly as he tried to brush the blood off on his jacket, hobbling forwards as he used the wall as a support.

The main hall was empty and dark. With no windows to the outside and no candles lit in the candelabra, the gloom was persistent. The hall was filled with similar boxes, half formed scaffold sat beneath the candelabra like a twisted spider. Heavy cloth hung against the walls which were half painted in what appeared to be a bright, sky blue. Anders hugged the wall as he moved through the dim light and felt the darkness itself as a threatening presence. The air was still here, too much so, and all sound seemed dimmed and muted. He felt the need to hold his breath but couldn't. His breathing had become a slightly wheezing rattle, falling in time with his steps.

The door opened with ease, which should have been warning enough. Instead he was too preoccupied to notice the seething displacement of air as the shade rose from the ground behind him, reaching out with thick, tendril-like arms which wrapped around his wrist and pulled. He was thankful, no matter how disturbing the thought was, that he did not have to react. As soon as the shade touched him the creature let out a shrill wail, flailing backwards before dissipating back into the floor with a noxious bubbling of black ether. Anders had instinctually pulled backwards at the touch, causing him to fall through the door and slam into the wall as his injured ankle gave way. Pain flared through his right side and he somehow bit down a cry of sheer agony. I'm sure he knows I'm here now anyway, he thought as he grunted, pushing himself back up and persevering with infuriating sluggishness down the corridor. Where are you, Danarius? Anders thought as he listened intently for any sound, tried his best to feel for the magic he knew was being used.

I can't take him in a fight, Anders thought as he pulled himself forwards, he'll tear me apart. Maybe Fenris can help, maybe if he's alright he could...he could...

The wave of dizziness was enough to bring him to his knees. Anders felt his head loll forwards and his vision go black, buzzing around the edges as his heartbeat sped up. He hauled in lungfuls of air, the pressure in his chest almost painful. Fuck, he thought, I can't keep going like this. He leaned to the side and felt the wall against his shoulder, turning gently in order to place his back against it. It was to his shock that the wall turned out not to be a wall at all, and gave way beneath him. Light flooded over him as he struggled to right himself, sudden noise sprang into life and Anders wished that it hadn't.

Grim death met his eyes as he worked his way to his knees. Five bodies in a putrid circle, only one which moved. Danarius stood to the side, looking at him with disdain in the tall ceilinged room which Anders recognised from the piano which sat in the corner. Yet it was not any of this which scared him so much as the thing which stood in the middle of it all, grinning at him.

Black eyes and white teeth in a sinister smile, a picture of death cloaked in innocence. It seemed nothing but a small child to the eye, a young girl with dark hair in plaits, a short brown dress over pale white skin. Yet he knew it for what it was and yet did not know it at all.

 _The doorway slammed open and there, behind it, loomed a terrible empty void, replacing the dirt path and the chickens and the houses and the square. It was gone, all gone, and there, standing in the doorway, half blocked by the man's body, was_ _it_ _._

It looked to him with recognition. Anders opened his mouth and screamed.

* * *

_Aveline_

She had never known exactly why she had ended up where she was now but it wasn't something she liked to question often. Her position was something she had earned, not something that was given to her. Aveline knew that she hadn't made many friends by becoming the Captain of the Guard, especially with Meredith and the nobles, but she hadn't cared a jot. She had done the right thing and she had been rewarded for it, that was all that mattered.

Yet, despite that, here she was, with Hawke, running through the streets of Hightown as they made their way, on a hunch, to where Hawke _thought_ the trouble might be. You're a bloody fool sometimes Aveline Vallen, she said to herself, what would your father think if he could see you now? Probably be delighted, she thought with a shake of her head. He had always filled her head with stories of knights and chivalrous tales of her namesake, the Orlesian knight Aveline who had battled in service of her Lord. Rushing into battle out of duty to a comrade would surely have pleased him. She wasn't so sure that Wesley would have agreed about helping a mage.

It wasn't out of turn to think about him, about the husband she had lost. There was always something to bring him to mind, even if the memory was tainted by his loss, by the painful remembrance of helping him to end it all before the taint consumed him. Aveline shook her head as she ran, watching as Hawke gained the lead. She opened her mouth to speak but was interrupted by a sound which stood out in the heady silence.

A scream which made Hawke stop in his tracks and look around wildly.

"That's..." her friend did not continue as he stared at the steps before them; the blood dripped and smeared up the pale, grey stone was ominously stark, "come on!"

She did not question him. She knew what it was to lose the one you loved. Fear for Donnic's safety was covered by worrying for Hawke's own pain. If she thought too long and hard about losing Donnic then she felt she might just give up altogether. One problem at a time, she thought strongly as they raced towards the mansion.

* * *

_Anders_

"The more the merrier," Danarius said as he dragged Anders across the floor, leaving a smeared trail of blood behind, "isn't that what they say here in the Free Marches? Well, your blood will help either way. I wouldn't say that I'm picky. You did not bring me the one I wanted, but I suppose you will do in his place."

He was dumped onto the slick floor, shivering from blood loss and hysteria. Not true, it's not true, it can't be true. A living nightmare was here in his reality. Somehow it had manifested itself. He could feel it even though he could no longer see it, crackling like a tear in the Fade and itching against his skin. Anders looked up as he struggled to push against the floor and raise himself up. Did not bring the one he wanted? Anders thought feverishly, What does he mean? Was I to bring him his own son only to have him sacrificed and bled for this...this blood rite? His mind rushed too fast for him to keep up with as he blinked and looked to his left. Fenris, he thought in dismay as he found the elf lying before him, his left arm slit open from wrist to elbow. The slick floor he felt beneath his hands was the pooling blood from the elf who, as far as he could tell, was barely conscious.

I have to get us out of here, he thought bleakly. _I see you there, little scurrying one, I feel my blood in your veins_. Anders flinched as the voice seemed to appear in his head. He was terrified of turning around, of seeing it, of letting it _know_ he had seen it. It's not true, it's not there, it can't be. A wave of nausea overcame him. He was distracted enough not to notice the pair of feet that had walked into view until it was too late. Hands reached down and grabbed him just as Fenris looked to him through glazed, half lidded eyes.

"Anders..." he heard his name whispered and was manic enough not to know who had said it as he was hauled up to his knees in a wave of pain; his side burned. His ankle paled in comparison. He looked up dazedly to find the glinting of a dagger before his eyes.

"One more for Razikale," Danarius said as he held the dagger before his own chest and grinned, "I am the chosen..."

Blood sprayed across his face and Anders gasped, the sudden shock enough to leave him breathless for a few seconds. Danarius looked at him in shock, his mouth hanging open even as he gurgled out a cry, showing the bloodied steel of the dagger as it protruded through the base of his jaw and up through his soft palate. Anders looked down to find Fenris there, half propped up on his ruined arm and his left leg, his tattoo glowing vividly against his skin, his eyes bright beneath his hair as his gauntlet-less hand grasped Danarius's own which, in turn, gripped the dagger.

"Never...be your slave," Fenris growled weakly before collapsing to the ground, heaving in slow breaths as Danarius slumped back against the ground in a shuffling of the rich material of his robes.

Anders felt the blood spell leave him like a weight being removed from his being, dying with an angry squirming as its Master passed on. It was instinctual to reach down, place his hand over the gory hole in his side and let out the barest spell he could manage, enough to at least stop the bleeding. Then he felt it, the thing which made everything stop.

He felt it on his shoulder. The sound had stopped, everything had stopped, and Anders looked round slowly, eyes creeping down to his left shoulder. A small, pale hand rested there. He couldn't move.

" _I see you_ ," it whispered softly, " _my_ _kin_."

Then it was gone. Everything seemed to rush back into being. Sound and pain and the cold and seeing the blood and Fenris lying in front of him. Anders slumped forwards and caught himself on his hands. I'm dreaming, he thought dazedly, none of this is real. There was a distinct remembrance of something he had not thought of in years. His harrowing, the test that he had passed to prove he was no Demon's play thing. The test he had passed because he had figured out the trap that they all set, the trap of appealing to your most obvious weaknesses. I won't let it be true, I'll wake up and it'll all be gone, I'll be at in bed and I'll wake up and...

He couldn't tell any more what was real and what wasn't. Suddenly the sound of running feet became louder and louder. He looked up towards the door and felt that it was confirmed as a dream when Hawke rushed into view, not stopping at the doorway even as his face morphed to a look of horror.

I want to wake up now, Anders thought as Hawke dropped to his knees before him and gathered him into his strong arms, trying to lift him gently.

"Help Fenris," he said through a throat that barely worked, too far gone to realise why Hawke's embrace jerked in surprise and the man leaned back to look at him in shock.

"What did you say?" Hawke asked in disbelief.

"By the Maker," Anders looked round to find Aveline standing in the doorway, her face stern and yet saddened as she surveyed the scene; she snapped out of her daze quickly and efficiently, however, and marched forwards to begin checking the bodies on the floor for signs of life, "It might not be long until the templars find us here. We cannot tarry. Dear Maker, they're dead, they're all dead Hawke."

"I know," Hawke said, sounding overwhelmed but, strangely, in control, "I need you to get Fenris on his feet. I have Anders. We'll take the back door, it's safer. Head for my house, we can regroup from there."

One arm around Hawke's shoulders and Hawke's arm around his back, he stumbled to his feet and together they fled the scene of a crime which he was yet to even barely comprehend. Yet the eyes and teeth followed him, mocking him as he fled, and the name that had been spoken by the man, now a cooling corpse in the midst of his own bloody ritual, stuck in his head as Aveline pulled Fenris's light body into her arms and followed Hawke with haste.

" _One more for Razikale"_ the voice whispered softly, " _my_ _kin_."


	9. Unknown

There was an acute awareness that came with being close to death. He had felt it before, twice in fact, in his lifetime so far. A quickened pace to things, a rushing of blood as the heart beat too fast for the body, panicked intake of breath as one felt such a surge of life as they had never felt it before. Anders could have described it as a sort of euphoria, if he were to be that pessimistic. On closer inspection it was more akin to terror, the spike of fear when you realise you're standing on a precipice, looking down to the land far below you. A dizzying effect which brought about the body's own self-preservation, whether the person wanted it or not. A mix of the polar opposites of feeling: joy and despair; a mix of the duplicity of being: vita incerta, mors certissima.

Which could have been why he found himself laughing as he was half walked, half dragged through the empty back alleys by Hawke with Aveline at their heels, still laden with her precious burden. It wasn't appropriate but, at that moment, he wasn't concerned with what was and what wasn't correct behaviour for the situation. His world was spiralling and he couldn't help but grin in the face of its madness. Once more back from the brink, he seemed to giggle to himself, once more out of the jaws of the beast. The dulled sunshine fell through the clouds like a fine mist, making the wet cobblestones glimmer. Anders found it somewhat enchanting. Hawke, not so much.

"Would you stop fucking laughing!" there was no heat behind Hawke's harshly muttered words, more a collection of confusion, relief and hysteria; they jerked to a stop once more and Hawke backed away from the mouth of the alley they had been about to exit. Anders looked up from his inspection of the pavement below his feet and looked out onto the plaza he found in front of him; the Lower Mansion District was aswarm with templars, clanking forwards in pairs as they carried the bodies of their comrades between them, heavy, limp corpses which they laid out in morbid rows.

He let out a snort before the laugh came, a barking, almost cackle which he found swiftly silenced by a large, warm hand over his mouth. He was pulled tightly against Hawke's side as the rogue let out a sound of frustration, backing them further into the alleyway. The movement jarred against his wounds and Anders frowned, as if suddenly remembering the blood soaking into his shirt, the swelling in his ankle and the bruising on his body.

"Shut _up_ ," he said tightly as Anders closed his eyes and held himself up against Hawke's foreboding armour; the mage listened with half an ear as Hawke turned to Aveline, feeling down his side to touch the wetness there, his fingers coming away red, "this is hopeless. There's no chance that we could get inside undetected. Anyway, I have sneaking suspicion that they'll be searching my house first, considering everything that's happened. I'd like to think I can trust Cullen but, right now, I'm not willing to chance it."

"Then we have to find somewhere else," Aveline replied stoutly, "I know it might sound risky, but what about the Chantry? They wouldn't turn away someone in need and they wouldn't allow them to leave untreated."

"I don't think that's a good idea," Hawke said as Anders squirmed out of his hold, "I doubt even the Grand Cleric would be able to stop Meredith from taking what she wanted, injured or no. Hey, you, get back here!"

Anders found himself hauled back as gently as Hawke's waning patience would allow. He fell against him softly and clung on even as his mind slipped dizzily from side to side. He hadn't been sure where he was going to go anyway. The pressure of the small, pale hand, softly as it had sat against his shoulder, lingered like the smell of mould in a damp room; no fresh air could dispel his need to reach up and brush at the spot with his gloved left hand. Somehow he felt worse for having done it.

"No, we need somewhere they wouldn't expect," Hawke said as Anders felt the rogue bring his arms up to hold the mage still, "somewhere...somewhere they wouldn't expect the Champion and the Captain of the Guard to run to."

"Meaning?" Aveline asked sceptically, "I don't like the sound of this, Hawke."

"Come on," Hawke ignored her doubt as he led them back the way they had come, "I think I know just the place."

* * *

He would admit that it wasn't the first time he had been there. Not like that, you understand. Purely for working purposes. It was a fantastic place to graze information to use against the enemy. So many templars frequented the Blooming Rose that it had always been easy for Anders to hide in plain sight amongst the loose mouthed clientele and drink in their dirty little secrets.

Of course blundering into the establishment covered in blood whilst hanging from the Champion of Kirkwall wasn't exactly on par with his usual stealth, but he claimed mitigating circumstances. He heard the scream before he saw who gave it, and the sound of people bustling out of the way as they hurried past, Hawke's stride determined as he approached the bar. The low lighting did not afford him a comprehensive search of the place but he made out the girls in their bodices and the boys in their open shirts, clutching to both the richly and poorly clothed patrons of the Blooming Rose, lining the stairway and the bar, all eyes on them.

"No, no, definitely not," came a sultry and yet stern voice; Anders looked round from his inspection of the room to find the silver haired owner staring at Hawke with a long suffering look and raised hands, "whatever it is you can take it elsewhere Hawke."

"I don't have time to bargain with you Lusine," Hawke said promptly, "I need your back room, now."

"You must think I'm a lunatic!" Lusine said as she waved over someone Anders couldn't see; he heard the heavy tread before looking to his left. The man he found there was at least a head taller than him and twice as wide. Anders smiled at him pleasantly and received a confused frown in return, "there are more templars out there on the street than I even knew existed, and from what I hear there's been an explosion in Lowtown. Magic involved, no doubt. So Champion or no Champion, I won't have anything to do with it!"

"And after the amount of favours you bloody owe me, woman," Hawke growled.

"No favour is worth my establishment," Lusine said coldly.

"My you are _big_ , aren't you," Anders said under his breath in a creaky tone as he was forced to look up at the bouncer, the man taking another step closer and placing a stalwart hand on his shoulder.

"This may not have been your best and brightest idea Hawke," Aveline said sardonically as she eyed the high skirts and low tops around her.

"Oh for fucks sake," Hawke muttered angrily as he used his free arm to dig around in his belt, eventually coming back with a soft, drawstring purse which he threw to Lusine; the Mistress caught it in curled fingers, her eyes narrowing, "here, take it, there's twenty three sovereigns in there at least. I'm not here to make trouble, I just need the room. For old time's sake."

Money talked far better than Hawke could, which Anders was glad for. The shock which he was sure he had fallen into was beginning to wear thin, which the growing pain in his system was testament to. Aveline watched every corner with a sharp eye as if she expected enemies to leap from the shadows, while the far too large bouncer changed from threat to escort and led them deeper into the Rose. Through the kitchens, past the curious eyes of the servant girls and boys, turning from the ovens to stare as they rushed past. There was a tantalising smell in the air, a mixture of freshly baked bread and perfume. Anders breathed deeply and tried not to think too hard about anything in particular. There was a nagging sensation in his head, somewhere around his conscience, that was telling him there were many things he needed to worry about. Anders chose to stalwartly ignore it as he limped beside Hawke, passing through into a long hallway which led into the dorms. A tall, brunette with dark eyes and no top on turned and let out a gasp as they rushed past, reaching up to cover herself.

"Sorry," Hawke said in a rather blunt, conciliatory tone as he continued forwards and through the final door, Aveline following with a long suffering sigh.

The mattress was soft but the bed beneath it was hard. It was a small room, nothing more than a single bed, a small table and no windows to speak of. There was a bare, drawn rug on the floor that felt lumpy beneath his boots. The bed smelled slightly musty as he was set down onto it, sitting at the end as Hawke moved away to help Aveline lay Fenris out on the bed beside him. Anders looked at the elf's pale face and felt the nagging sensation become an increasingly frustrating nuisance; his eyes closed and his face pale, his arm split and coated in red.

"We need bandages," Aveline said, ever practical, "and some rubbing alcohol. I'll ask the girls outside, someone will surely have supplies. I'm sure there are lots of cuts and bruises to heal in a place like this."

Anders watched her leave while Hawke quickly began checking Fenris, his eyes alight with determined concern. Cuts and bruises, he thought feeling his brow wrinkle, there are always wounds to heal but they never stay closed. He looked down to his jacket and soaked in the sight of the gore lining the soft, brown leather. Peeling it back revealed the source of his pain and light-headedness. He could see the muscle puckering where the spear had ripped his flesh as it was pulled out. His shirt was thick with blood and the smell was rank and heady. Somehow seeing it had made it all the more pungent. He reached down and slowly pulled his shirt back over the wound, frowning with displeasure as he realised it didn't meet, a fair sized piece missing. _Is_ there a piece missing, his mind raced, is there?

"Maker's breath, Anders," he heard Hawke say, then there were hands on his and Hawke was kneeling in front of him, staring at his wound with the same blank stare he reserved as a mask, "why do you... you never listen to me, do you."

"This is hardly the time," Anders drawled out hoarsely before coughing roughly, bringing up his right hand and wincing at the ripping feeling inside as the blood once more choked up his throat and out over his fingers. The accompanying choking and gurgling sound only seemed to make it appear worse than it was.

"Fuck!" Hawke exclaimed, taking Anders by the wrist and looking at his blood spattered hand, "Lie down, just, lie down. I'm going to get...I'm going to get someone to..."

"Don't. Unless you know of some fantastic healer in the vicinity who wouldn't mind running the templar gauntlet to get here," Anders said as he wiped the blood off onto his ruined trousers and reached down to begin fishing about lethargically in his belt pouch; his voice was rough and guttural, a reaction to having been basically mute for weeks on end, "don't bother. It's internal, I need to stop it myself. I just need to find some lyrium..."

His hands were batted away with tight movements as Hawke leaned in and searched his pouch for him. Anders was grateful for that at least. He was beginning to lose the sensation in his fingers and the buckles had been too difficult to deal with. Hawke cursed as he found nothing, moving to the opposite pouch and scrabbling through it. Anders watched him with an odd sense of fondness, reaching up almost unconsciously to stroke his fingers through Hawke's unkempt hair, the thin layer of blood on his fingers making the soft strands stick.

"Here, take this," Hawke's tone was level but urgent, pushing the softly glowing lyrium potion into Anders' other hand. The mage stared at it and nodded, flipping the snap cork open with difficulty and lifting the bottle with surprising effort in order to drink in the bitter but familiar liquid.

It was an instantaneous reaction. He felt lighter, suddenly less confused, more awake and aware. In a sense it was wonderful to feel less giddy and confused but also worse considering the pain, which had been a nagging irritant, became suddenly and immeasurably more prominent. Anders let the bottle drop to the bedcovers and closed his eyes tightly, his head swimming as he choked back a cry.

"Anders?" Hawke asked worriedly; he felt the rogue's hands wrap tightly around his upper arms to keep him steady, "What's wrong, tell me. What can I do? Tell me!"

He heard the door open and Aveline quickly strode in, closing the door behind her. She had an armful of cloth and bottles which Anders was very glad to see.

"Here, it's all they had," she said as she placed them onto the table and looked over, her brow creasing as she noticed Anders' exposed wound, "...that is far worse than it looked covered up."

"I need, ugh, Hawke I need you to..." he forced his eyes open and blinked away the sheen of salty tears which had formed there on instinct; he wished that the blissful, giddy ignorance was back and that he wasn't as in control as he was now, "...to check the wound. There might have been a piece of my shirt pulled in when the spear...when it...I need it out. The infection will kill me...even after I've healed."

"You want me to look? How?" Hawke asked as he lowered Anders back against the wall; he did not exactly sound happy at the prospect.

"Just..." Anders bit down another cry and felt blood in his mouth as his teeth went through the tender flesh of his lip; the biting sting it caused was only a brief reprieve to the slowly building agony that was once more consuming his body, "fuck, just look inside Hawke. Sterilise your hands with...the alcohol and..."

"You want me to fucking poke around in there!?" Hawke sounded aghast, "Are you mad, won't I do more damage?"

"Damn it, just shut up and do it!" Anders practically yelled, making Hawke flinch even as Anders let out a long, guttural moan and clenched his cold fingers into the bed sheets, "I don't...have time for your squeamishness. In case you hadn't...noticed, this fucking hurts. I can't close it until I know it's clean."

"Alright!" Hawke barked out, taking a breath before calming himself as well he could; Anders watched as Hawke hurriedly jerked off his sharp gauntlets and dropped them carelessly to the floor, "alright. Aveline give me the alcohol. I need you to see to Fenris while I...while I do this."

It was a necessary evil, Anders knew that. How many people had he seen lost to infection from a badly treated wound, to an inexperienced healer who didn't sterilise the injury before healing it up with all the dirt and filth locked up inside, ready to seep into the bloodstream? Countless people lost to an invisible killer. Normally he did it himself but, with his hands in this state he could barely hold a bottle never mind do anything this precise. Still, it didn't make it hurt any less to know that it must be done when Hawke cautiously peeled back his shirt and pushed his fingers into the bloody hole in his side, trying his best to pull it open marginally in order to feel inside. He couldn't help the muted cry he let out through gritted teeth as he closed his eyes tightly and tried his very, very best to think of something else. Anything else. Anything but the bizarre and sickening feeling of someone poking about inside his body where they definitely shouldn't be.

"I can't see anything, there's too much blood," Hawke sounded anxious, "Anders are you sure?

"No I'm not fucking sure!" he shouted as he slammed his head back against the wall and tried to let the brief flash of pain take him away from the rising torture, "Fuck, _fuck_! There was a piece...a missing...oh _shit_."

Hawke had delved deeper, obviously taking the seriousness of the issue to heart and continuing without another word. Anders' eyes flew open and he stared up at the low ceiling above him, roughly plastered and oddly flickering in the candlelight from the table. He heard his breath coming in short, huffed breaths. His shoulders shook and he felt as if he were going to pass out. Please Hawke, he begged silently, _please_. He could see Aveline out of the corner of his eye, see her hand rising and falling whilst holding a white bandage, wrapping it slowly and carefully. Anders focused on it, only barely aware of the lines of worry on Aveline's brow which only worsened every time Anders made a sound. She seemed to be actively avoiding the scene that was happening only two feet to her left.

"There, there's something..." Hawke said, sounding agitated; then suddenly the pressure was gone, the sickening feeling was gone; unfortunately the terrible pain stayed but Anders couldn't be picky at that moment. He looked down at Hawke as the man forced him to look at the small patch of something in his gory hands, "this, I think I found it. What do you need me to do now?"

There was no time to explain anything. Anders simply pushed Hawke's hand away and, with terribly shaky arms, placed both his own hands over the wound and called upon the routine of his creation magic. Firstly, and knowing it was risky, he let out a wave of intense healing magic to cover his whole torso, hoping to catch whatever internal bleeding may have been caused during his fight. The relief was a sweet euphoria, even if it did make him feel once more light-headed to use his waning supply of mana. Next he set about magically cleaning the wound of the first signs of infection, before setting about stopping the bleeding and beginning the long process of knitting the muscle and nerves back together. Hawke watched him intently, seeming like a coiled spring, tense and twitchy as he wiped his bloodied hands onto a spare rag. Anders tried not to pay any attention and continued to deal with his wound. The throbbing in his ankle was becoming more and more noticeable as he worked.

"How is he?" Anders asked faintly, in order to distract himself as well as learn Fenris's condition.

"He seems to be alright, all things considered," Aveline said as she sat back on her heels, hunkered down as she was beside the bed. She had bandaged Fenris's arm and covered him with a spare blanket which had been in a box beneath the bed. Still the elf looked deathly pale, "he's lost a lot of blood but the knife cut was clean. I've patched it up as best I can. I'm sure you can do a better job once you're able. Hawke?"

"What is it?" Hawke answered distractedly, looking to the Guard Captain.

"Where's your friend, the other healer? Callum was it?" Aveline asked, "We could use his help."

"Can't, he's out of the City," Hawke said, lifting his hands in placation when Anders looked to him with concern, "don't worry, it's nothing. I took him with me to the Bone Pit because we needed a healer and I couldn't find you. He's treating Donnic."

"He is?" Aveline asked quickly.

"He's in good hands, Aveline," Hawke said, reaching up to place a hand on her shoulder; Anders watched as her face softened slightly, before once more hardening with resolve. She nodded before standing to move about the room, seeming to need to move around in order to distract herself.

"Hawke," the man's eyes snapped to Anders as the mage spoke softly, his voice breaking as he tried not to push his vocal chords too far, "I need you to do something for me."

"Anything," Hawke said quickly.

"I need more lyrium," he noticed the lack of shake to his voice, glad that the treatment was working as quickly as he had hoped; the blood had stopped and the wound was sewing back together nicely, despite Hawke's rough treatment, "if I'm going to help Fenris."

"I'll go," Aveline said, cutting Hawke off as the rogue opened his mouth, "I need to check on my troops, I can't be out of commission for too long or people will get suspicious. Anyway I have to check on Donnic, make sure he's alright. I'm going to head back to Lowtown and leave by the East Gate, head out to the Bone Pit. I'll send someone back up with supplies, someone I trust."

"Alright," Hawke said after a moment's pause, "thank you Aveline."

"You don't have to thank me Hawke," she said with a terse and yet genuine smile.

* * *

"And so you don't...?"

"Not a clue."

"You can't even think of why..?"

"How many times do I have to repeat myself?"

"As many times as you need to interrupt me, it seems."

Hawke was being facetious and yet Anders found it impossible to be angry with him. The man had a point after all and, as far as Anders was concerned, he had every right to be just as curious as to Anders' sudden repossession of his voice as he was when the mage first lost it. Unfortunately Anders was at as much of a loss as he was. The questions were beginning to get on his nerves a little, perhaps because, as inexplicable as it all was, Anders was simply glad to have his voice back. Even if the reason was something to do with...with that thing. What had Danarius called it? Razikale? The name sounded vaguely familiar but Anders shied away from it.

_...Anders' eyes widened to the point of insanity. His open mouth released a scream which did little to convey the true horror of the thing he saw there. It stared at them both and time seemed to slide into its eyes. The man lifted the amulet high in the air and brought it down onto the table. The green jewel shattered audibly..._

There will be plenty of time to think about this later, he thought as he instinctively reached up with his free hand to clasp the broken amulet he wore through the material of his shirt, right now I need to focus.

Anyway there's no need to worry Hawke, Anders thought as he downed the dregs of his third lyrium potion, feeling his stomach revolt with a nauseous twist as the liquid slid down his throat; Aveline's guard had arrived about a quarter of an hour ago to discreetly drop off a bundle of supplies: three bottles of good quality lyrium, some healing salves, bandages, rags, a spare shirt and trousers and even a loaf of bread. Anders was glad that the Guard Captain had been so comprehensive in her care, he always found himself starving after losing this much blood. He was sure Fenris would feel the same way when he awoke. Also the clean clothes were much appreciated; he preferred not to be slaked in blood if at all possible. The wound in his side was slightly tender but, to all intents and purposes, closed completely. It would take further healing to fully mend the damaged tissue but Anders wasn't concerned with that at the moment. As for his ankle it was swollen but it was no longer painful, at least. He found he had to walk with a slight limp in order to avoid aggravating it further but, other than that and the general aches and bruises and scrapes on his body, he was surprisingly well.

Or as well as he could be, considering. It's not a good thing, he found himself thinking, that I take things like this in my stride. Yet I do. I'm not sure exactly what that says about the state of my life.

He had closed the long, clean cut in Fenris's arm, used his magic to clean the wound and re-bandaged it. In scanning the elf's body he thankfully found no trace of blood magic or any internal damage. Whatever Danarius had used on Fenris at the Hanged Man seemed to be gone, or was simply undetectable. He looked at the elf upon the bed, still unconscious. Without his armour Fenris seemed a far less imposing figure than he normally did. His tattoo was open to the air, running down the full length of his arms and visible on his chest where his black undershirt was open to the breast bone. Now it was just a matter of waiting for him to wake up. Unfortunately that gave he and Hawke a lot of time alone. The anxious worry Hawke had shown was now being suppressed by a silent fury which he didn't seem to know what to do with. Eventually Anders couldn't stand watching Hawke glare at the wall any longer.

"Just say it, will you?" Anders said, clearing his throat as his hoarse voice stuck.

"I don't know what you mean," Hawke lied, keeping his tone level.

"I know you're thinking it, just bloody say it," Anders sighed, leaning back against the wall next to the bed and looking down at the stewing man.

Even with the prompt it took Hawke a few moments to give in to his anger and say in a tight, controlled tone:

"I've seen you make some rash, foolhardy, _stupid_ decisions in your time Anders, but this really tops the lot."

Well I can't really feel sorry for myself this time, Anders thought as he took a deep breath and let it out as a harsh sigh through his nose, considering I made him say it. Still, he thought as Hawke stood stiffly and began slowly stalking around the room like a caged panther, it wasn't as if I had much choice in the matter. As far as he could tell, if he hadn't gone into the Hanged Man that day then Fenris would more than likely be dead and the Magister would have been able to complete whatever hideous blood ritual he was trying to complete for that...thing. The thought made him shiver and he missed what Hawke said as the memory of eyes and teeth flashed up before him.

"Why Anders?" Hawke was asking him when the mage shook himself from his momentary daze.

"Why what?" he asked back quietly.

"Why didn't you _tell_ me?" Hawke sounded incredulous, "All the times you've made me promise not to go running off on my own and then the pair of you pull this stunt!"

"And how many times have you ever listened to my advice about not running off alone?" Anders said with a sardonic raise of one eyebrow, making Hawke let out a sharp sound of disgust and pull out one of his daggers, seemingly in order to give his hands something to do as he began twirling it absently in his right hand.

"Don't turn this back on me," Hawke said darkly, "you nearly got yourselves _killed_ , and for what?"

"For what?" Anders said disbelievingly, eyeing Hawke critically, "Are you truly asking me that? If you hadn't noticed Danarius is dead, Hawke, and whatever he was doing has been stopped. Isn't that reason enough?"

"To have half of Lowtown demolished? To have several people slain in a blood ritual and templars slaughtered in the streets?" Hawke said back, his voice rising, "No, no it is not enough! There would have been another way, something we could have done, I could have protected him and _none_ of this would have happened! Why do you think I refused Fenris's plan in the first place? And now..."

There was nothing he could say that would make things any better. Maybe it was the residue of his muteness leaking over even after his voice had returned, but Anders found it easier not to argue back. Hawke would not listen to him, not now while he was like this, tense and het up and angry. Anders crossed his arms and stared at the opposite wall with narrowed eyes, curling his fingers into the soft material of his fresh shirt.

"...now every templar in the city is going to be looking for _you_ ," Hawke bit out, "I'm guessing that it was your handy work we saw in the Viscount's square?"

"If you're talking about the dead templars," Anders said stoicly, not looking at Hawke, "then yes."

"Fuck," Hawke was barely audible as he once more began pacing, "this won't end here. Not this time. I don't know if I'm enough, Anders, _not this time_. Cullen has done a lot for me but he is one of the few, very few, templars I am willing to trust even a little and I don't think even his influence will help. If there were any witnesses to what you did then Meredith will be at my door right now bashing it down! Don't you understand what will happen, don't you see? They'll take you to the Gallows Anders, she'll start a fucking manhunt! Slaying templars in Hightown while a Magister runs riot? This gives Meredith everything she needs to..!"

Hawke stopped suddenly, snapped his mouth shut and fumed, as if unwilling to voice his fears aloud. Anders didn't look at him but he could feel the rogue glaring at him out of the corner of his eye. There was a moment of terse silence which Anders was sure he should have filled. Instead he let the silence linger, unsure of what to say. He couldn't exactly refute Hawke's claim as it was probably true. Not that he'd been given any choice in the matter but yes, he had made more bad decisions that day than he could count, not to mention that there was probably a concussed Tevinter mage running free around the city for all he knew. So he stayed quiet and stared straight forwards because he knew if he said anything then the fight would only escalate.

"I don't want you to leave this room, understand me?" Hawke stated with lethal calm.

He listened as Hawke walked to the door, threw it open and slammed it shut behind him as he left.

Another deep breath did nothing to calm his nerves. This isn't going to end well, he thought grimly. Hawke was right about that much at least, this whole debacle _would_ fuel the Knight Commander's accusations and give her enough ammunition to lash out at the mages without consequence. The thought made him tighten his grip on the sleeves of his shirt. She'll want someone to make an example of, he thought darkly, and if she can't find me then who knows who she'll pick. His thoughts strayed to Bethany as he had seen her when she treated him earlier that day, all worried eyes and a determined but naive strength. He closed his eyes and hung his head. Surely Meredith would not be that cruel, he hoped, but if she wants to make an example that will put Hawke in his place then, well, Anders knew what he would do if he were Meredith. That was why he hated the woman with every fibre of his being.

"I'm guessing he's not coming back any time soon."

Anders looked down to his right and found a pair of glassy, moss green eyes staring up at him. He shook his head in reply as he pushed away from the wall, unable to stop the rough sigh he let loose as he walked to the side of the bed and crouched down.

"You can talk again," Fenris continued, watching Anders' every move.

"How long have you been awake?" he asked as he reached out with his right hand to run a quick spell to check Fenris's vitals, ignoring the elf's words.

"Long enough," Fenris replied, no humour to his words.

"How do you feel?" Anders avoided the implications of that statement and decided to focus on healing, "Aveline sent us some bread and there's water in the pitcher. You should eat something, you lost a lot of blood."

It wasn't much of a shock that, when Anders looked to Fenris after receiving no reply, the elf was staring up at the ceiling in much the same way Anders himself had not long before. Why does everything always have to happen at once? Anders thought as he finished the spell, glad to find nothing untoward in Fenris's system other than fatigue. The memory of the blood, of the red haired elven woman falling to the ground, Fenris staring in horror at what he had done; Anders pushed it away. To lose something you'd never had the chance to even experience, and all by your own hand, he didn't even want to think what that was like.

"Is he really..?" Fenris didn't stop so much as drift off, his eyes finally shifting away from the ceiling and back to Anders, "Danarius. Is he dead?"

"I think so," Anders said, not wanting to be too certain in his proclamation considering he'd seen blood mages come back from seemingly fatal wounds before; yet this time he had a feeling that Danarius wouldn't have received any help from the...the thing in the room. Something told him that failure wasn't rewarded. The thought made him shiver and swallow down the need to look over his shoulder. Where did that thought come from? He wondered anxiously; "that's what tends to happen to people when you put a dagger in their brain."

"No less than he deserved," Fenris said darkly, his gravelly voice thick with hatred, "if only I had been stronger, I would have given him a far more painful death."

"Then for your sake I'm glad that you weren't," Anders said as he stood; Fenris did not take kindly to that statement, if his glare was anything to go by. Anders shook his head and wondered how many irrationally irate people he was going to have to deal with, "dead is dead, Fenris, no matter how it happens. It's you that's going to have to live with how it happened."

"Or regret it," Fenris growled out, "he was a monster, no, he was more than that. Everything he did to my family, my sister, everything she said he made me do..." Fenris once more stopped talking and changed the subject, projecting his anger back at Anders as if terrified of thinking about the implications of what he was saying, "are you trying to stick up for a man who tried to kill you? Wishing I had killed him in his bloody sleep?"

"Don't be such a prat," Anders said stonily, "of course I'm not defending him, I don't hate myself that much. What I mean to say is..." he felt his face soften as he hesitated, even as he looked down into Fenris's rage dark eyes, "I know what it's like to hold all of your anger and fury inside of you, with nowhere to vent it except at those you care about. I know what it's like to slay your enemies with such vengeance as to coat yourself in their blood and revel in it. I _know_ what it's like to wake from the nightmares such a life brings."

Fenris was no longer looking at him. Instead his eyes were lost beneath a fall of stark, white hair as the elf looked down towards the rough, dirty floor. Where do I get off sermonising to him? Anders thought. He believed in his words but still felt a hypocrite for saying them out loud.

"There's no future in hatred," he continued despite himself, "the only thing that lies there is solitude. What happened was not your fault. You did not kill your sister, Fenris," he did not miss the elf's fingers curling into the bed spread like claws, but continued regardless, "I'd say you've come too far and fought too hard to throw away everything you've built here over someone like Danarius."

We both have, Anders thought but did not voice it.

"And what have I built here?" Fenris muttered out, but there was no bite to his words; he sounded oddly broken to Anders' ears.

"A home," Anders said softly as he picked up the pitcher from the table and poured out the last drop into a roughly hewn cup.

Trying to take your own advice? He thought. Perhaps I should. We're not so dissimilar, Fenris and I. Perhaps that is why we were ever able to work past our differences in the first place. He recognised much of himself in the young elf, much of the same recklessness and anger which he had harboured as a young man. Both trapped by their past, both raging against a world that sought to ensnare them, control them, fear them. Anders stood once more while Fenris continued to stare at the floor.

"You should drink," Anders said, keeping a hold of the now empty pitcher as he walked towards the door, "and eat something. Get your strength back..."

"Anders."

He stopped at the door and looked to his right. He watched Fenris sit up slowly, resisting the urge to reach out and help him up. He knew Fenris was too proud to accept such help. Which was why it was such a pleasant surprise to find a genuine look on the elf's face when he finally looked Anders in the eye.

"I know..." Fenris hesitated but seemed to bolster his will and carry on regardless, "I understand what this means, you helping me, what it has done. I know I was selfish and...I am sorry. I did not mean for any of this to happen."

"I won't say you weren't a reckless arse," Anders said, smiling a little as Fenris sighed roughly and looked away, his face set in irritation, "but, considering what was at stake, if I had the choice I'd do it all again," adding with a slightly mischievous shrug, "even the getting stabbed part."

It surprises even me how much I mean that, he thought as Fenris gave him a look he'd never seen from the elf before: respect. He would admit it felt a little like an achievement of sorts.

"I..." Fenris seemed annoyed at himself at his constant hesitation, "I mean, thank you Anders. Truly."

"Ah, don't thank me so quickly," he shrugged, smiling genuinely, "you haven't had your talking to yet."

"Yes, well," Fenris said, once more his usual dismissive self as he waved his right hand, "if Hawke thinks for a moment that he holds the moral high ground in this venture, he has another thing coming. If he had only joined us in the first place all of this might have been avoided."

"Don't be too hard on him," Anders said, losing his smile, "he's been through a lot lately. Honestly I'm surprised he didn't react more badly than he did."

"Hmm," Fenris hummed doubtfully, "I'll take your word for it."

Yes he'd been told to stay inside the room but Anders was never one to be cooped up without cause. He was sure that he was safe enough in the Rose what with his new clothes, even if the trousers were a little too long and needed turning up at the bottom. He had washed his face and arms, cleaned down his legs and torso as best he could. He could still feel the sticky residue of the blood, feel parts he hadn't reached where it pulled at his skin, but at least he no longer looked like a walking abattoir. Anyway, he thought proudly, I've always been good at blending in. Who does Hawke think he is, always thinking I can't look after myself?

"I'm sure you think you're being terribly clever," spoke the devil himself; Anders jerked to a stop just before the exit to the now empty dormitory and turned around to find Hawke pushing up from the wall. Anders hadn't even noticed him but then Hawke was a _master_ of blending in. Well now I just feel silly, Anders thought as he placed the empty pitcher he was carrying onto a nearby bedside table. Hawke approached noiselessly and Anders found himself standing with a rigid back and folded arms once more.

"Either that or I'm just very thirsty," Anders said back sardonically; even though he had told Fenris to be easy on Hawke he felt no need to take his own advice where that was concerned.

"Don't try me," Hawke said, emphasising each word with terse patience, "I'm in no mood for your attitude. What if someone sees you?"

"I hardly think that's going to matter now," Anders said, cocking his head to the left, "considering our grand entrance. If anyone was going to report us they would have done it already."

"Anders get back in that room now or I swear I'll..." Hawke started angrily but was swiftly interrupted.

"Or you'll what, Hawke?"

It had been a long time since he'd used that particular tone. He remembered the last time quite well, considering the upheaval that had been happening all around him at the time. When he, Hawke and Callum had found that lone farmhouse to hide out in, that rough night after Montfort had fallen to Vengeance's wrath, he had snapped. Being able to sound dangerous enough to stop Garret Hawke mid rant was a feat worth taking note of. The only difference was that back then he had felt out of control, on the verge of breaking down completely. Now, staring into Hawke's bright green eyes, he knew exactly what he was doing. Hawke had not replied, instead eyeing him cautiously even as the rogue refused to back down.

"What are you going to do?" Anders asked calmly, "Moralise some more? Tell me what to do as if I were nothing but a child? Beat some sense into me?"

"No, that wasn't..!" Hawke reacted badly to that particular suggestion but Anders didn't let him get any further.

"I'm going to get some more water," Anders cut in, his tone final as he once more picked up the pitcher, "Fenris is awake. I suggest you go and talk to him and, I know this might be difficult for you," he said sarcastically, making Hawke bristle, "but don't upset him. He's just lost his sister."

"What?" Hawke said, looking taken aback, "His sister? But how?"

"It's probably best if he tells you himself," Anders said as he once more turned for the door, "but if you want my advice, I wouldn't bring it up."

Hawke did not stop him. He was glad of that. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt the man further but there had to be a line and Anders was drawing it now. Something I should have drawn a long time ago, he thought as he asked in the kitchens for more water. A helpful yet slightly fearful servant boy helped him, refilling the pitcher and handing it over cautiously. The smile he managed to summon in return seemed to ease the boy's wariness at least a little. Despite his short words with Hawke he did return to the room once he had collected the water. No need to put us in any more danger than is necessary, he thought. Although he was sure that the obscene amount of coin Hawke had thrown at Lusine was sure to have the Madam keep her clients quiet on their behalf.

It was as he walked back through the silent dormitories, only the sound of distant and subdued merriment and the not so savoury sounds of two or perhaps three people _enjoying_ themselves in the room above, that he started to think about the others. Callum was safe, if Hawke's word was true, that was something he was overly grateful for. The tall mage was cautious but was also prone to throwing himself into danger where Anders was concerned, that much he knew, so it was best that the man had been kept out of the situation. If Hawke went to the Bone Pit surely he would have taken Varric with him too, Anders thought as he found himself beginning to pace as Hawke had done earlier. So the dwarf would be safe, he would be. Hawke would be far more worried about Varric if he didn't know that he was safe. Anders used that logic to reassure himself. It had been a stroke of luck that Isabella had been out of town and, as far as Anders was concerned, they had dodged the falling arrow in how many of their friends had been omitted from this tragedy. I wonder where Merrill is though, he thought with concern. It had been a while since he'd seen her, what with his own affairs being so topsy-turvey. She isn't stupid, he comforted himself, she knows how to take care of herself. He hoped that she had been sensible enough to stay in the Alienage and not venture outside where the templars had been roving in deadly packs. Even thought of the resistance members made him pace even faster; Sabine, Rayzla, Farah, Fritt...Meredith's reach was not particular when it came to mages. He sent out a silent plea, hoping for their safety. They know what to do, he thought, they know where to hide. It's what they're all masters of, if nothing else. He smiled grimly and put the pitcher of water down on the floor, his arms growing tired from holding it. It's getting too dangerous now, he thought strictly, things would have to be done, measures would have to be taken...

"...so bloody stupid! What did you think would happen?!"

"Oh I don't know, I guess I wasn't thinking about that when I was fighting for my life!"

Anders perked up as Hawke and Fenris's voices suddenly became audible through the closed door. He sighed once more, feeling he had been doing that a lot lately, and wished that Hawke could be more discreet and, even though nugs would have to fly, more tactful. Despite their differences, even over and above their friendship, Anders felt that what Fenris needed most at that moment was time to heal. He needed his friends around him, to remind him what was truly important. He had lost more than any person had a right to lose and Anders empathised. The very last thing he needed was Hawke's personal brand of care, which included outlining all of the bad decisions that person had made through a misplaced sense of anxiety over their being hurt. Anders didn't blame Fenris for retaliating but it wasn't something he wanted to stand outside and listen to. He picked up the pitcher once more and opened the door.

Fenris was sitting rigidly on the bed, his hands tightly clasped and pressed to his chin, eyes hard and breathing in an overly steady manner. Hawke was standing in the middle of the room, his hands on his hips but his head hanging forwards slightly. Anders recognised the pose as that of building remorse. Hawke tended to do this when he realised he'd been too harsh and was now regretting it. Well, same old same old, Anders thought facetiously as he moved into the room, closing the door behind him, and walked to the bedside table to fill the half empty cup of water he had left there. He heard Hawke shuffle around behind him but didn't turn. He placed the pitcher down before picking up the cup and handing it to Fenris who took it with a jerky nod of thanks.

"We should think about getting out of here soon," Hawke said; Anders turned to look at him, "just because I paid Lusine doesn't mean the templars can't storm the place. Considering all that's happened I wouldn't put it past them."

"Then where do you suggest we go?" Anders asked.

"How about the Dalish?" Fenris said suddenly, "They've helped us before and they aren't exactly the type to just _let_ humans do as they wish. I doubt they would allow the templars to storm their camp."

"That's...that's actually a really good idea," Hawke said, nodding as he brought his arms up, holding his left elbow with his right hand while his left hand grasped his chin, "Marethari does owe us a favour, of sorts, after Feynriel. But we need a good way to get out of the city. Somewhere that won't be swarming with templar patrols."

"Oh don't worry. Hawke," Anders smiled grimly, "I'm quite sure I have that covered."

The sewers were always open.


	10. Lair

The air felt different here. Colder. His skin was as gooseflesh and he felt the need to wrap his arms around his torso. He looked up to find a dark mass before him, a looming danger which he could not define and yet was somehow sickeningly familiar. There had been no path to this place and yet his will had brought him here. The surrounding landscape was twisted, broken, as if it had once been something beautiful that was now corrupted.

He approached with the wary sense of a child, yet with a child’s curiosity. The mass became more defined as he grew closer; high walls, stark towers against the pale blue nothingness behind, bizarre and yet appropriately organic hellish designs adorned its surface. A spiralling city in the void, sitting alone and unkempt. The gates seemed to creak, as if trying to open. He walked forwards against his own volition and hated every step. When he watched his hand reach out and touch the gnarled surface of the gate, misshapen and dry beneath his fingers, he knew that this was no longer the Fade as he knew it. This was something far more dangerous.

He felt it then, as if a cold spike of ice had been driven up into his spine. He could hear the noise growing louder as the black gate creaked open. That noise like a dying scream and a mournful howl, growing and growing as it spiralled towards him. He was rooted to the spot, unable to back away or to advance. It was with surprise that the light spilled out from between the cracks. He wanted to raise his hand to shield his eyes but was unable to perform even that simple task, in this body that felt as if it were not his own. Instead he was forced to look at what it revealed, stretching in as if forever, vast and bleak and...

...and there, on the floor at his feet, he found a familiar sight. Anders wanted to run but he could not move. He wanted to close his eyes but he could not. He wanted to look away from the sight of Hawke’s body, prostrate on the ground, sightless eyes staring upwards as the blood pooled around him and his neck gaped open like an abyssal maw. Yet he was forced to look as the red crept out like fingers from the body there and soaked into the brown dress of the young girl that kneeled above the gory mess.

He looked up and Anders felt as if he too raised his head. The sight was suddenly unclear, superimposed with the very thing he had feared as he saw it before he fell asleep. The Thing smiled and reached out its hand to him.

“ _You’ve come home_ ”

It continued to speak but Anders could only watch in fearful anticipation as her lips moved and their hands touched.

He awoke with a start. For a moment the cloth above him was jarringly different to what he had expected to see. He would have wanted red material, flickering under firelight, slightly frayed at the edges where Hawke had meant to sew it but never had. Instead of the four poster bed, however, Anders pushed up to look around the tent in which he lay, lit a pale cream by the sun outside. The lingering dream shivered across his skin like a memory. He could feel the panic in his chest and yet his breathing was slow. He closed his eyes and tried to banish the thoughts there. Instead they blazoned themselves onto the backs of his eyelids.

“It’s about time you woke up.”

He would have been startled by anyone else, yet Hawke had become a reliably unthreatening presence. Anders turned round slowly, wary of his injured body, and looked to the man squatted behind him. Hawke’s face was creased into a small smile yet Anders could see that it stopped before it reached his eyes. He could empathise. For only the second time since it had happened, Anders let his eyes slip down to Hawke’s neck, the thick, red scar line only visible beneath the wiry black hair for one who knew what to look for.

_"No! Don't you let this happen!" he shouted suddenly into the air around him, "You help him! You help him Justice or I swear I'll make sure you never see your work finished!"_

_He heard Callum backing away from him with a gasp, the hand disappearing from his shoulder as Anders' immersed himself in the familiar stunning blue glow, the markings on his skin flaring and the Fade itself fizzing in the air around him. Anders reached forwards and grabbed Hawke roughly, pulling the heavy weight into his arms, pushing away the sheer torture of holding the dead man against his chest._

_"I_ _swear_ _to you, I'll die before I see it done!" he screamed into the cold air, his voice breaking, "I'll die! You bastard, you_ _bastard_ _help me!_ _Help me_ _!"_

“Sorry, I must have needed the sleep,” Anders said in an overly cheerful voice as he cautiously tried stretching up his arms but stopped when the pain in his abdomen flared up; he let out a soft grunt before lowering his arms slowly down to his sides, “how long has it been since dawn?”

“...A few hours,” Hawke’s hesitation belayed his want to admit that he hadn’t slept.

“Then you should get some sleep now,” Anders instructed, “I can go and talk to Marethari. There are a few final things I need to ask her anyway.”

“You shouldn’t be up, not in your condition,” Hawke protested, standing up to walk to Anders’ side and look down disapprovingly.

“Ah, I’m fine,” Anders said with a plastered on smile, “good as new, see?”

Lifting his shirt to show Hawke the newly formed scar was supposed to bring a measure of placation. Instead Hawke simply stared blankly at the discoloured flesh before sitting down on the bedroll beside Anders without another word. He left the tent while Hawke continued to stare sightlessly at his knees. The mage did not want to contemplate what the other man was thinking, lest he lose his nerve.

It was not an encouraging sight that he was presented as he pushed his way under the heavy canvas doorway. The mountain, as it had appeared when they had arrived the evening before, clean of blood and yet somehow doused in fear and anger, sat dormant and yet somehow waiting. Anders looked up at the seemingly inert, jutted rock and refused to buy into its peaceful calm. The sunlight glanced off of the boiler plates of granite, high on the right side. There were eagles circling the peak. The entire mass was dotted with grasses and flowers. Yet Anders didn’t buy it. He hadn’t since they had first arrived.

 

_“Marethari said you would be coming.”_

_The elf that informed them of their admittance into the camp did not seem particularly impressed with his duties. Anders didn’t think he had seen the young man before but no-one seemed in the mood for conversation. He, Hawke and Fenris did not try to engage anyone further than was necessary to gain asylum within the camp. There was no use in making a bad situation worse, after all._

_They found Marethari as the evening light grew low. It had taken a surprisingly long amount of time to escape the city. Anders had often wondered why the templars did not patrol the sewers. He had found out, as the three of them had descended into what he had thought would be the safe under-passages of the city, that Meredith had not spared the sewers this time. The route out of Kirkwall had been made considerably more difficult as they avoided templar patrols while slinking through mainly dark and, in some places, destroyed tunnels._

_“This is the second time you have come to see me, mæverhim,” the Keeper said as they approached, the light of the fire by which she was seated cast her shadow long over the ground._

_“She means you,” Fenris had said when Anders hesitated; there was no heat to his words but Anders was more than aware that there was no life to them either._

_“There’s trouble in the city,” Anders stated plainly; there was no time to dwell on anything but finding safety, “a Magister arrived. He was causing havoc, many people are dead. We need somewhere to hide while the templars are on high alert.”_

_“...to hide,” Marethari took a moment before she spoke, finally raising her eyes to regard them; it was a piercing gaze and Anders knew that there was reproach there, “you reek of it, all three of you.”_

_“Reek of what?” Hawke asked confusedly, “We only want somewhere to stay for the night...”_

_“Blood magic,” the Keeper interrupted._

_“Not of our own choosing, believe me,” Anders spoke up quickly, noting Fenris clench his hands into fists, “there has been...there is more to it than what I have told you. If you will let us stay I’ll explain it all. Please.”_

_There was little chance that she believed him straight away, was what Anders thought. Ever since he had subtly tried to ask Marethari for help in obtaining the ingredients needed for his bomb, the elf had been wary of him. She was too wise for her own good, was what Anders had thought back then. Now he saw her as more too wise for his own good, which made him feel a little like a reprimanded child. Space had been made for them in the camp without much fuss. Hawke had wanted to continue on to the Bone Pit and search for Varric and Sebastian. Anders, through much persuasion and some heated words, had forced the man to stay. He would have brought up how worried he was himself, especially for Callum, but hadn’t thought that would go over well. As it was Hawke and Fenris retired to the tent to rest while Anders had remained with Marethari in order to explain._

_Which was when he noticed it._

“There’s food in the pot,” a female elf called out to him as he passed; Anders looked to her in surprise, considering barely anyone had talked to him since they had arrived. She did not show the same derision that the others seemed to at least, he thought as he noted the lack of hostility in her blue eyes, “enough for you and your men."

“Thank you,” Anders didn’t see the need to correct her, “perhaps we’ll get some later..?”

“Davia,” the woman said, recognising the prompt, “I am a hunter. Marethari tells us you are a mage.”

“Mmm,” Anders hummed in a non-committal way, unsure of how it would be received.

“I do not care,” she said, her words not as rude as they should have been, “you have helped us before, I see no threat in your magic. I will keep this hot.”

She gestured to the bubbling pot over the fire by which she sat. Anders spared her a smile, a genuine one, before nodding and continuing on. He found that the Dalish camp, while seeming somewhat more cheerful under the bright morning sun, still exuded an air of tense terseness. Eyes scanned him as he walked past, while no words were spoken. Again he flicked his eyes up to the mountain. Sundermount stared down at him passively in return. What is this feeling? He asked himself, even as he tried to ignore the implications of his growing dread.

“You have sought me out once more for a reason,” the Keeper spoke in a gentle tone as he walked towards her; it had taken some wandering, and asking someone for help, before he found her standing at the crossroads which led out of the camp to the east, “but I am not yet sure whether it is selfless or not.”

“Perhaps it’s both,” Anders shrugged, having readjusted himself to the Keepers odd forms of discourse, “I...I have certain things that need answers but every time I try and find those answers...”

“More questions appear,” Marethari nodded, seeming slightly appeased by his words which put Anders at ease, even if only a little, “it is the way of things, when one seeks the meaning to something greater. A life is not so simple a thing to discard.”

“I didn’t discard..!” Anders stopped himself, reigning in the anger that had flared at the use of the word, knowing she had not meant it intentionally, “it’s, as you say, more complicated than words can sum up. I felt as if I had lost him, Justice that is, but recently I’m not so sure. There’s a clinging presence that I feel sometimes and now, when I’m asleep, I’m not even sure if I’m...me at all.”

There was a break in the conversation that stretched on just that moment too long. Anders looked to his right to find the Keeper watching him with a small and yet sad smile. He frowned but almost wasn’t sure if he wanted to hear what she had to say.

“You keep looking at it,” she said, making Anders look away from her with a subtle scowl, “perhaps there is, then, still something left in you. It is not so simple, to remove one thing from another once they have become so tightly entwined. If you crush two pieces of clay together, is it possible to pull them apart without a residue of the other remaining upon both?”

It wasn’t something he wanted to think about. They had been either apart or together, Justice and Anders, gestalt. Not now, not as it seemed to have become. More Vengeance and Anders. Or can I even truly call myself that anymore? he worried, Is it fair to rename him and yet presume myself untainted by our union?

 

_What he had presumed would be a short talk had turned into more of a deep conversation. Anders would admit he was in no state of mind for such a taxing discussion but he had not begrudged Marethari her curiosity and her need to know what was happening. She had agreed to harbour them after all. In truth he had been waiting to speak to the Keeper ever since he had returned to Kirkwall but had never managed to find her at the Dalish camp. Her wisdom was something he had hoped to exploit and, in truth, he felt there was no one else he could discuss his misadventures with who would understand them as well as she might be able to._

_“Do you know of Merrill’s safety?” had been the first thing she had asked._

_“I’m sorry, I don’t,” Anders replied, feeling guilty that he couldn’t give her a better answer, “I haven’t seen her since this all began. If it’s any consolation she’s a bright woman and she knows how to avoid trouble.”_

_“I understand that,” Marethari said, her brow creased with worry, “but I am also well aware of her propensity to find trouble without even knowing it is there. Still, I have faith in my First. At this moment, that will have to do.”_

_They had continued on to the situation in Kirkwall. Anders didn’t think it prudent to hold anything back. He was sure that, if he did, the keeper would either somehow already know or, at least, know that he was lying. Unfortunately, in order to explain what had happened, some old wounds had to be reopened. Marethari sat silently as Anders talked, only once stopping him to ask a single question._

_“That name,” she said as Anders blinked, broken out of his stride, “say it again.”_

_“Name?” You mean what the Magister told me?” Anders asked, “Denarius called her...I mean it, he called it Razikale. Why? Does that mean something to you?”_

_She hadn’t answered. Anders had even asked her again but with no luck. He would have been angry if he could have found the energy. Instead she looked up towards the mountain and sighed. He followed her gaze to the darkening outline of Sundermount against the deep blue sky. Night was drawing in and the stars were visible in the cloudless expanse. Anders shivered yet, when he rubbed at his arms, he found he was not cold._

_“You do not have the same presence,” Marethari looked at him with an oddly mothering gaze, “something has changed in you, am I right?”_

_“I...” he wasn’t sure what to tell her; the truth seemed like an oddly appropriate response, considering how fearful he was of it, “the spirit within me, Justice, he has gone.”_

_“Gone?” the elf frowned, her look darkening, “I have never heard of such a thing. Once a human and a Fade spirit are joined then they are inseparable.”_

_“Well, I’m afraid I can’t tell you how it happened,” Anders said succinctly, “there was an incident and I, well, let’s just say that he’s gone. I don’t know where. Perhaps the Fade. I think, I mean I like to think he managed to go home. I don’t think I will ever see him again.”_

_“That is...unsettling,” Marethari said with a frown, “I did not know such a thing was possible. Tell me, have the dwellers of the Fade changed their attitude to you in any way?”_

_“Now that you mention it,” Anders said, looking to her with a soft frown, “the shades that Denarius sent at me didn’t seem to be able to approach me at all. In fact, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say they were terrified.”_

_“I see,” Marethari said sadly, “then there is something somewhere that is wrong, something that has been unbalanced.”_

_“Unbalanced, what do you mean?” Anders asked worriedly._

_She did not answer. Anders shivered and curled in on himself a little further to try and stave off the phantom feeling of a chill on the air._

_“It is said that the Ancient Tevinters used this place,” Marethari spoke up suddenly, watching him out of the corner of her eye, “as a site of human sacrifice.”_

_“What?” Anders couldn’t think of a better question than that, looking to the keeper with a start, “You mean the mountain?”_

_“Yes,” she nodded, “they would lead them here, hands bound, legs chained together. They would lead them to the peak and there they made them build a chamber. Once the chamber was built, the slaves were sacrificed within its walls and their blood was poured onto the alter.”_

_“An alter? How do you know all this?” Anders asked, wondering where this sudden diversion was even going._

_“Because it is carved into the walls of the chamber itself,” Marethari said, turning to finally look at him face on, “every detail.”_

_“And why were you even up there?” Anders asked suspiciously, “Even from down here I can feel its presence. Ever since...ever since I’ve had my run-ins with blood mages,” Anders decided to stay intentionally vague on that subject, “I have become more keen to sensing it. Yet you seem as if you would pick up on something like that, so...”_

_“It was where I found Merrill,” Marethari answered tiredly, “after she had made her pact.”_

_“...I see,” Anders said, feeling a little sick at the thought, “then the shrine; you mean there’s a demons lair up in the mountain?”_

_“Yes, the one I told you of before,” she agreed, “a demon of pride, I do not know its name, even now. Yet what I do know is that this is not the only one in Kirkwall.”_

_“What do you mean by that?” Anders asked, his voice hushed._

_“I mean to say that the demon’s lair in Sundermount is not the only such room I have heard of adorning the city and its surroundings,” the Keeper said, sending a thrill of both fear and excitement through Anders’ system, “you have heard tell, I am sure, of the countless number of slaves used to carve this city out of the cliff side, used in the quarries to dig the stone which built Kirkwall’s towers and its walls?”_

_“I have,” Anders nodded, thinking to the strange letters Callum had delivered to him on Alesis’ orders, “I’ve even read some first-hand accounts of the strange places which dwell beneath the city streets.”_

_“Then you already understand,” she said softly, as if speaking more to herself than Anders; the mage looked to her quizzically as she gazed up at the mountain, “and perhaps that is not a good thing.”_

_“I don’t know what you mean,” Anders frowned, “and, to tell you the truth, I don’t understand much right now. It’s just adding...”_

_“More questions,” Marethari finished for him. He frowned in annoyance, yet it was replaced by anxiety when she looked to him with what appeared to be a pitying gaze, “but you seek the answers still. That is enough.”_

_He had tried to ask her what she meant, something, anything, to replace the building worry that coiled around in his gut. Yet she would not speak, only frown when he asked her about the demon or, only once more, mention the name Razikale. Eventually Anders gave up, instead changing the topic. He asked her if she could lend him two of her hunters to accompany him to the Bone Pit to search for his friends. She had refused on the grounds that it was growing too dark and that, what with the turmoil in Kirkwall, she refused to put her people into any danger. It appeared that Anders was not the only one who wanted to avoid Meredith’s wrath; Marethari also sought to spare her people that indignity. Instead she had instructed him to sleep and she would think about perhaps sending someone with them the next morning. It had been all he could get and he took it for what it was worth._

_Then the dreams had come. Then his true worries once more rose to the fore as he watched what played out behind his closed eyelids._

* * *

“Do you think it safe to travel?” Fenris had asked when Anders suggested they head out.

“I don’t think we have much of a choice,” he had shrugged in reply, “it’s not going to be safe for us in many places.”

“Especially you,” Hawke had said without reproach; it hadn’t stopped Anders glaring at him, “I mean it Anders, you’re going to be the one Meredith’s after if she found out about what happened in Hightown. It’s safer if you stay here, keep out of sight until this dies down.”

“Dies down?” Anders scoffed, “Really Hawke? Denarius blew up Lowtown. There were demons in the streets and goodness knows how many citizens were killed. I killed ten templars and injured goodness knows how many more. Problem is I didn’t kill them all so they probably know who I am and have reported it by now.”

“For Maker’s sake,” Hawke said tightly, crossing his arms angrily, “that’s what I’m _talking_ about! Stop being so bloody reckless and face reality for one second, will you...”

“I know perfectly well what the reality of my situation is,” Anders replied tersely, “I don’t need you to ram it down my throat.”

“Well you obviously need some sort of wake up call,” Hawke continued, “considering you seem to think it’s a good idea to go gallivanting about while you’re the most wanted person in Kirkwall!”

“Will you shut your bloody mouth for just one minute!” Anders shouted.

He heard Fenris leave the tent rather than seeing it. Anders could hardly blame him. It was awkward enough when he and Hawke fought without bringing the elf into the mix. Hawke was staring at him in angry surprise. Thankfully it gave Anders enough time to continue before the other man regained his speech.

“I’ve had it up to here with your over protective nonsense,” Anders spat out, gesturing at the top of his head, “if it were up to you I think you’d happily lock me away in a tower somewhere just to keep me safe. Well you can’t, and I refuse to volunteer for anything so demeaning. I won’t be cooped up for my own safety, there are people out there who need my help, who are relying on me! So you’re either going to accept that or piss off out of my face until you do, understand?”

It was the second time that morning that Hawke had been silenced by him. Only this time the silence was far more telling. Hawke’s lack of will to argue with him was odd and somehow only made Anders angrier through its absence. What do you want from me? he wanted to roar at the man as Hawke shuffled his feet and looked about him in a seemingly impotent rage. After all I have given for you and all you can do is act as if none of this ever happened? Instead Anders swallowed down his outburst and left the tent, his shoulders tense and his movements sharp.

The sunlight did little to lighten his mood this time. The mountain watched them all silently as they packed up the few meagre belongings they had obtained from Aveline and left the camp, heading towards the Bone Pit in silence. It was an unwanted silence, the sort that allows time to brood, to think. Too much time to dwell on things which would rather be avoided. Anders desperately wanted someone to distract him with anything, anything at all, yet the only sounds were that of the wind over the barren rock, dirt and grass as they walked.

“ _My blood, my kin_ ”

He shook his head and blinked, willing the voice from his mind. Memories of his recent encounter with the thing he could not name, and his almost incomprehensible time in the place he knew not what it was while his body had lain dead in Weisshaupt, were becoming rather mixed and confused. He remembered little of what had happened during his time in the space beyond reality, where he thought he could recall the boiling of a soup pot, the smell of herbs and a man who had familiar eyes and a stern countenance. Yet he remembered the thing, as it stood there in the doorway with its dark eyes watching them and its mouth open in a terrible, preternatural scream. Razikale, he thought to himself involuntarily, Razikale. What does it mean? Why is that name familiar to me?

You have more than that to worry about right now, he scolded himself as he looked up, making sure Hawke and Fenris were still there. He had fallen behind slightly, walking without truly thinking about where he was putting his feet other than one in front of the other. Simply looking down as he watched them move and let his mind wander. Now he could see the top of the hillocks they were passing over as they skirted the terminal moraine of Sundermount. He would have had no idea how long they had even been walking for if it hadn’t been for the sun’s position in the crystalline sky, creeping slowly as it was towards its zenith.

“What do we do if they aren’t there?” Anders tuned in to the sound of Fenris’s voice, realising he and Hawke had stopped a short ways ahead and were talking as he approached them.

“Then we...well I will return to Kirkwall,” Hawke said tiredly, “see what is happening, try and assess how much information is known to the guard and the templars. See if they know how deeply we are all involved in this. As far as we know they haven’t even discovered Denarius’ body yet.”

“We can figure that out when we don’t find them,” Anders said resolutely, continuing to walk until he had passed the motionless pair, “until then we keep walking. We don’t have time to stand around.”

No time. No time left. Understanding what had happened to them was a mystery Anders knew he did not want to look at too closely. Everything in this world had its consequences, an equivalent exchange of one thing for another. Long ago, when he had believed his classes to be nothing more than time usurped, there was one thing his teacher Wynne had said which grabbed his attention. There was no gain without loss, as there was no loss without gain. No energy was ever destroyed. As they practiced the delicate art of creation magic things were simply changed from one thing into another; the lyrium in his blood and the energy in his body in exchange for the stitching of sinews, the healing of bones and the replacement of skin. That was why there was no bringing someone back from the dead, Anders thought hollowly as he looked over his shoulder at Hawke and felt a chill creep up on him, the price to pay was too high for most to give. Anders turned away and looked down to his own hands. It was something he had never wanted to think of again since the moment he had begged Justice to bring Hawke back to him, something he had hoped had not even happened at all.

_“I...I brought him back,” Anders would never be sure exactly why he told Marethari what he did. Perhaps it was the fact that it was something he was desperate to forget, something he was desperate to believe had not happened at all, “he was dead and I...”_

_“You are sure?” the Keeper asked sternly._

_Anders nodded. He felt a little distanced from the conversation, as if it were someone else having it. There are so many things I have done against the laws of this world, against the rules my teacher taught me as a young man. The balance of the arcane and the physical, the Fade and the Real, and the consequences when that balance is disturbed. Yet Justice and I were one, and Hawke did not die that day and I...I was allowed to come home. I wanted to believe there would be no consequence to any of it but now I am not so sure._

_"And you did not question it?" Marethari asked him, a hint of anger in her tone.  
_

_"At the time," Anders thought back to the relief he had felt when Hawke took a long, deep breath and opened his eyes once more, "there was truly nothing to question."  
_

_The inaccuracy of his dreams, of the fear the Fade dwellers had of him, it all pointed to something that he could not yet comprehend._

_“All those who have tried such a thing have been driven mad,” Marethari’s voice was strangely blank as she spoke of those who had attempted human resurrection, “or died in the attempt. That neither has happened to you is perhaps not as much of a blessing as you would wish it.”_

Anders looked up to the sky and closed his eyes against the sunshine. For the first time since he had dared to beg Justice for the ability to do the unthinkable, he lingered on the thought and allowed himself to realise the folly of his rash actions.

The sight of Hawke within the black gate danced behind his eyelids, red with the sun’s light.

What have I done?

* * *

 

“They left?” he asked angrily, “What do you mean they _left_?”

He had hoped that what Fenris had posited could not possibly be a reality. Yet, as they had walked down into the Bone Pit, to the miners there who ran to Hawke in a cluster of worried voices, there was no sign of Callum, Varric. The one person who had remained was, unfortunately for Anders, the one he cared the least about.

“Serrah Hawke!” Sebastian Vael’s distinctive accent rang out over the small quarry as the man ran towards them, “Thank the Maker you’re alright! What is going on?”

“Sebastian, where are the others?” Hawke asked quickly, taking the man by the arm while Fenris and Anders fought their way through the worried crowd of men.

“I thought they would be with you,” Sebastian looked around concernedly, “I stayed here with the injured guard, Donnic is his name, yes? Serrah Callum healed him as best he could but he still hasn’t woken up yet.”

“Donnic, he’s alive?” Hawke said with relief, which dissolved into a frown, “Wait, why is he still here? Take me to him.”

They were led into the mouth of the mine, the darkness swallowing them, replacing the bright sun’s light with the flickering of torches. Anders looked about him warily, all the while itching to have someone tell him where his friends had gone. That fool Crummock, Anders thought , what has he gone and done now? They walked down a set of curved wooden stairs and came to a well lit room which was supported with thick wooden beams and contained a few rough tables and chairs and, in the corner, a bed. On the bed lay Donnic and, in the chair beside it, sat Aveline.

“Hawke!” she exclaimed when she saw him, standing from her bedside vigil and walking to them swiftly; she took hold of his shoulder and gave him a hearty shake, smiling all the while, “I knew you wouldn’t be put down that easily. Anders, Fenris, I’m glad you’re all alright.”

“Same here,” Anders said with a smile, “but why are you both still here? And have you seen Varric or Callum? They should have waited for us here.”

“Your friend, Callum, he is the reason we are still here,” Aveline said with a sigh, looking back to the bed where Donnic lay, unmoving, “when I arrived they were still here, Callum and Varric. He told me what he had done for Donnic. I wanted to take him back to the city but he said it wasn’t wise to move him, not until his wounds were less fragile. I was...worried that if we moved him that they would re-open. So I stayed here while they went to look for you.”

The last words he had wanted to hear. Anders shook his head and felt his hands tighten into fists.

“When was that?” Anders asked urgently, “When did they leave?”

“Last night, around dusk I think,” Aveline said, “it’s difficult to keep track of time down here.”

“Last night?” Fenris repeated to himself, “Then they’ll have been back at the city hours ago.”

“Shit,” Anders said under his breath, “they won’t have known what they were walking into. Hawke, we have to go!”

“I already told you, Anders, I am the one who will go back to Kirkwall,” Hawke said, his face blank but his voice determined, “I will go alone. There is only one horse outside anyway. Aveline, you don’t mind if I borrow him, do you?”

“Of course not,” the guard Captain said, “I’m staying here.”

“You shouldn’t go alone,” Fenris said stoutly, “let me go with you.”

“It’s too dangerous, after everything you went through I’m surprised you’re standing at all,” Hawke declined, “and anyway, if anyone saw you near Denarius then you’ll be a suspect in all of this.”

“Hawke...” Anders tried to argue, reaching out to place his hand on the man’s chest as he tried to walk by.

“Please, don’t fight me on this,” Hawke said, taking Anders by surprise as he reached up and carefully wrapped his hand around Anders' own hand; the mage could feel Hawke’s fingers there, where the tranquil symbol was blazoned onto his flesh. His smile was soft but somehow hollow as he looked into Anders’ eyes, “I can’t worry about us both, not now. I need you safe while I work this out. Please, let me do this my way.”

There was a moment, where they stared at each other as if searching for some sort of answer. Eventually Anders backed down, taking his hand away and folding his arms. He looked away from Hawke and tried not to think about what the man meant to him. It was difficult to define, after everything they had been through together.

“Alright,” he said, “but just this once. And Hawke..?”

The rogue stopped and looked back over his shoulder.

“Be careful,” Anders said sincerely, “don’t do anything reckless.”

“I’d never hear the end of it if I did, would I?” Hawke said with a hint of humour in his smile, before he turned and walked out of the room; Anders heard his boots upon the wooden staircase and tried to calm himself.

Everything would work itself out, wouldn’t it? Anders felt like a fool for thinking of something so naively optimistic. As he knelt down beside the bed and looked over Donnic, while Aveline told him everything Callum had done to treat the man, he began to wonder if he had ever been able to believe such a statement, not matter how many times he had been told it or said it to himself.

The words that It had spoken in his dream came back to him as if said from a distance. Was it even real, any of it? Anders thought hopefully.

_As It’s lips moved and their hands touched._

“ _One life for the promise that is owed_ ”


	11. Depths

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is from Hawke's POV

It dropped down from the high wall, forming six patches of red upon the cobbled, stone floor of the wide Eastern Gate. Hawke looked up slowly, following the trail, flinching at what he saw there. High above, where the crows circled, six heads sat staring ghoulishly back at him. All he could hear was the tap, tap, tap of the congealing blood hitting the ground.

It took everything that he had to ride Aveline’s horse through the gate, hoping to all that the Maker held holy than no blood dropped on him. The thought made him sick. He was sure that he recognised one of the disembodied faces, yet he could not place it exactly. He stopped that train of thought before it went any further. Truthfully, he did not wish to know.

“Champion!” Hawke looked abruptly to his left to find one of Aveline’s guards running towards him from her post by the inner gate; he was sure her name was Jess, he had talked with her a few times when waiting to see Aveline in the barracks, “Champion, I’m so glad you have returned!”

“Jess, isn’t it?” he asked, hearing the hollowness in his tone; she nodded respectfully, “Tell me, what has happened here?”

“It’s the templars, sir,” Jess said, sounding both fearful and disgusted, “they came down here no more than half an hour or so ago. Brought...them in a bag. Made us-made us put them up.”

“But who are they?” Hawke asked tightly, gripping the reigns firmly, “were they involved in the explosion? When did the templars start doling out executions?”

“I don’t even know who they are, sir,” Jess said in a hushed voice, “I couldn’t do it, couldn’t touch ‘em. Jonah had to do it for me. They told us that they were abominations but...but I ain’t never seen an abomination. I always thought they were monsters, sir, but they...they just look like normal people to me.”

Hawke took a deep breath. He got down from Aveline’s stallion and stood for a moment, just breathing. Jess watched him concernedly but said nothing. Abominations, Hawke thought, _abominations_. Which meant only one thing: the heads upon the wall were mages. Hawke took another deep breath, smelling the bitter, metallic tang of blood and rotten flesh upon the air.

“Here, take these,” he said to Jess, handing her the reigns unexpectedly; she took them dutifully, nevertheless, “this is the Guard Captain’s horse. She and guardsman Donnic are at the Bone Pit, he is badly injured. I need you to find someone in charge and take some people out to escort them back to Kirkwall. Take a cart or something with you, Donnic is in no state to ride. I have three men waiting with them; they are not to return until I give the word. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” she said, saluting tightly across her chest before turning away to follow his orders without question.

Hawke waited until she had rounded the corner and was out of sight before walking to the wall and spitting out the bile which had involuntarily wretched into his throat. He leaned against the wall and took several even breaths. Even though he did not wish to, his eyes slid to the left, watching the tap-tap-tap of the red upon the stone. He had never been more glad not to see a face he truly recognised. If Callum or Varric had been upon the gate he didn’t think he would have been able to be held responsible for his actions.

 

How has it come to this? He thought in horror, speaking the words aloud as if to reaffirm his disbelief, “How has it come to this?”

* * *

 

“The Champion is here to see you, maam,” the terse templar said through the half open door.

“I have no time to see him now,” Meredith’s voice answered in her usual haughty manor; the templar nodded, turning back to Hawke.

“You will have to...”

Hawke did not allow him to finish. The templar had already unbalanced himself by leaning backwards slightly to speak round the open doorway. It was a simple and yet satisfyingly violent action, to take hold of his arm and grab him by the shoulder with the other hand, hauling him backwards over his heels, making him trip, before pulling towards him and thrusting away powerfully. The templar crumpled down the carpeted hallway to the sound of someone dropping a hundred spoons down a spiral staircase. Hawke entered Meredith’s office and slammed the door shut behind him, his stony countenance only matched by the Knight Commander’s stern eyes.

“We will talk _now_ ,” Hawke said sharply.

“You appear to be upset,” Meredith said, raising one eyebrow; it was only a few seconds before the door flew open and two templars appeared, hands on their swords. Meredith stopped them with a simple gesture and a steady voiced ‘leave us’ before continuing as if nothing had happened, “but I meant what I said. I have no time to deal with anyone right now, not even you Champion. In case you had not heard the centre of Lowtown in lying in ruin and I have order to restore in this city.”

If he had known the effect it had, perhaps he would have done it intentionally. Instead it was a simple bonus to his incensed, disbelieving, silent stare that it seemed to unnerve Meredith, even if only a little.

“Lowtown?” Hawke finally found his words, taking two steps forwards and slamming his hands against Meredith’s dark, mahogany desk, “There are six heads above the Eastern gate and you want to talk about _Lowtown_!? You heartless bitch, explain yourself or I swear I’ll make you explain yourself!”

Icy blue eyes watched him, blinking steadily before Meredith finally let out a soft sigh. She stood from her chair and walked around Hawke in order to close the door once more.

“There is no need to threaten me,” she said sharply, “and for your information the perpetrators you saw at the Eastern gate were not the sole casualties of this debacle. There are twenty seven dead and fifteen of those are _my_ templars.”

“So you thought it would make it even if you took a few more lives before the day was out, is that it?” Hawke seethed, “the guardsman told me that she was told they were abominations, but they were like no abominations I had even seen. No signs of mutilation or disfigurement! Why did you do this to them?”

“Four of them used blood magic against the third regiment which I sent to the Alienage,” Meredith said without hesitation, “Captain Cullen reported that they were drawing glyphs upon the ground which he said he has seen used before to summon forth demons. They tried to apprehend them but the perpetrators fled and took refuge in a nearby house. The man and woman there attempted to shelter them beneath the floorboards. They were summarily arrested and brought back here.”

“Where you _executed_ them?” Hawke asked, aghast, “Without a trial, without the jurisdiction of the courts? How could you make the decision to take six people’s lives on paltry evidence without any judicial proceeding!”

“In the event of an attack within the city walls by those with the ability to do magic,” Meredith said, “the Chantry has the right to declare martial law in the name of the Knight Commander and after a Tevinter Magister was sighted and reported running amok within our very city, summoning demons and using an unknown art to destroy the stones of our very buildings, I took up that call. Any who were caught violating the laws which are set down upon mages in order to protect themselves and the people of Kirkwall were taken into custody like any other would be.”

“To be killed?” Hawke said in a low voice.

“I will not tolerate blood magic within my jurisdiction, Champion,” Meredith replied stonily, “and as for those harbouring them, it is a hanging offence to hide an apostate. I am willing to be lenient in extenuating circumstances but considering the nature of these mages...” Meredith narrowed her eyes as she stared towards her desk, as if seeing something else entirely, “I will not tolerate blood magic within my jurisdiction.”

There would be no reasoning here, Hawke thought. Blood magic; the words tried to temper him even as he tried to fight back against it. Did blood mages deserve this? No chance at redemption and, instead, a gruesome end as a warning to others? At that thought another sprang to his mind.

“I heard there were deaths in Hightown,” Hawke said, trying his best not to give away his agenda, “is that true?”

“Yes,” Meredith sighed, “ten of my men and women were killed. Seven badly injured. Unfortunately no one can identify the mages responsible.”

“Mages?” Hawke frowned, the confusion genuine.

“There are conflicting reports, as always,” Meredith said, her annoyance obvious, “some said there were two attackers, some say there were three. They could not tell where the attacks were coming from and the assailant was gone before they could truly get their bearings. I was told by three separate witnesses that they saw one of the attackers stabbed through the chest but there was no sign of a body. I suspect that foul play may have been afoot. There were demons in Lowtown, I see no reason that this Magister would not have summoned them in Hightown also.”

The weight lifted from Hawke’s shoulders like a physical thing. No-one, he thought over and over, no-one can identify him? Thank the Maker, thank Andraste, thank everyone who needs bloody thanking! Bouyed by the candidness of Meredith’s reply, Hawke continued his deception.

“Then this magister has not been found?” he asked angrily, “How do you know they aren’t still in the city? You had time for an execution but not for finding them?”

“Do not belittle me, serrah Hawke,” the Knight Commander replied, “Our hunt is vigilant and we will not stop until we find our prey. Cullen reported to me that your mage gave him information that he knew where this Magister might be. I will want to speak to him as soon as you can make him available. I will not allow Kirkwall to appear weak in the minds of the Imperium or the apostates that riddle the under-city like vermin. You have taken up enough of my time. I will ask you to leave unless you have any information you think I would find useful.”

 

Hawke left with a terse promise to inform Meredith if he came across any such information. Talk of Meredith speaking to Anders made his blood run cold. If she found out that it was Anders who had killed her templars in Hightown, Hawke knew there would be nothing to stop her taking his head as a trophy. The thought made him stop and take a deep breath before continuing.  
  
Truthfully he was glad to be out of the woman’s presence. She was strangely charismatic and somewhat persuasive, despite her prickly manner. He had left before she started making sense to him. The day that he agreed with Knight Commander Meredith was the day he would gladly throw himself into the bay and never come back up for air.

* * *

 

He had not wanted to bring Anders home. In fact, after the display at the gate, it was the last thing on his mind.

After the display at the gate he had wanted nothing more than to pack up a few belongings, grab his sister, Anders and his comrades and charter the next boat to Ferelden. He had ceased caring what this city expected of him, what its demands were, what it needed by way of protection. Meredith had become the city and Meredith would not listen to him. However, as that was not possible, the first thing on his agenda was to find his wayward friends. Thankfully a quick reconnoitre to Lowtown had led him to them quicker than he had expected. Of course Lowtown was no longer as deserted as it had been when he had passed through the day before. There were people on the streets, templars standing guard and guardsmen and templars alike creating a barrier around the still demolished Hanged man while those within continued to sift through the wreckage. Hawke avoided the display and instead asked at a couple of his usual haunts. Lady Elegant, whom he had never quite gotten used to calling that, was the one to give him good news.

“You’re looking for Varric?” she said after they had given their mutual relief for seeing the other unharmed, “I saw him quite a few hours ago, he went into Lirene’s with some big fellow.”

“Thank the Maker,” Hawke muttered to himself, smiling as he rushed away, “thanks Elegant!”

“That’s Lady Elegant!” she shouted after him in an irritated tone.

To say that Lirene’s was packed was an understatement. It was difficult to move or hear within the small establishment. There were people lying upon the ground, propped against the walls, half wrapped bandages falling off of bleeding wounds, weeping relatives hanging off their arms. Those standing were either shouting for attention or barely standing at all. The air was thick with the smell of illness and blood. As Hawke struggled towards the front of the mass he heard the same thing over and over.

“Where is he, don’t you know where the Healer is? My father, his wound won’t close. He’s getting faint, won’t you please tell me!”

“I was supposed to come back an’ see him today, he told me so, I need to know where he is or I’ll get sick again an’ I can’t afford to miss more work. My boss is gonna fire me!”

“Please Lirene, where is the Healer! This isn’t a joke, I need to see him, my son..!”

“Will you please all quieten down!” Hawke finally managed to push through and found Lirene at the front, with her assistant, looking very harassed, “I have told you that I don’t know where he is but, if I were him, I wouldn’t be showing my face around here with all the templars, would you? So how about you form a queue and I’ll try and get you dealt with as best I can!”

“Lirene!” he said loudly, only just being able to be heard above the din, “Lirene is Varric here?

The stern woman looked around as if trying to find the source of his voice before looking to her left and straight at him. She blinked a few times before letting out a sigh of relief.

“Serrah Hawke, it’s good to see you are safe,” she said.

Unfortunately as soon as she said those words the din quietened, momentarily, before Hawke felt an odd sensation. He looked around and found that all eyes were suddenly on him.

“The Champion, it’s the Champion!” rose the cry.

“He’s come to save us!” said others.

“He knows the Healer, he can take us to him!”

“I...” Hawke faltered in the face of the sudden flood of desperate adoration; he was sure he would have been swarmed if it hadn’t been for Lirene. He felt a hand around his arm and a swift tug pulled him backwards. He stumbled after the slight woman as she led him to a side door and pushed him through. He staggered through it, righting himself just in time for the door to close in his face and to hear Lirene’s muffled voice saying something about ‘The Champion isn’t here to see you individually! Get back in the queue I tell you!’.

Anders’ words from that morning came to mind: ‘ _there are people out there who need my help, who are relying on me!_ ’. It had never been more apparent than here. Hawke brushed himself down before turning to look around the room he was in now. There were people lying on nearly every available piece of floor space. White and stained cloths were spread across most of them, only faces showing, all contorted in different stages of pain. Some stared up at the ceiling sightlessly, only the rising and falling of their chests any indicator that they were alive at all. For some, the sheets were pulled up over their faces in a death pall. The soft and quiet atmosphere here was a huge contrast to the hubbub next door. Hawke felt uneasy, tearing his eyes away from the sick and the dying to find Callum and Varric looking back at him, Callum in the midst of healing an elderly woman who was sitting on a long bench, her bloodied leg stretched out towards him.

“Took your time, Hawke,” Varric said, even as his tone lacked its usual humour.

“Took _my_ time,” Hawke said tightly but quietly, “you’re the ones that could have been more prudent. Running off like that, I was worried.”

“I’m touched,” Varric said with a small smile, lifting his hand to his chest, “but you know I can look after myself.”

“And what’s your excuse?” Hawke asked Callum; he didn’t entirely mean to sound so arrogant but it came out that way nonetheless.

“What excuse do I need to give you?” Callum replied blithely, “I came with Varric because I was worried about Anders. When we couldn’t find either of you or Fenris we decided it would be best to come here, what with the templar coup-de-tat.”

“Well be more careful next time,” Hawke said with a sharp sigh, “it isn’t safe for mages on the streets. It makes me twitchy enough that you’re using magic in here when there are templars outside the door. Haven’t you heard about the executions?”

Both Varric and Callum had apparently heard, if their expressions were anything to go by. Callum finished his spellwork and began carefully cleaning the old lady’s wound with a rag and some water.

“We heard,” Varric said sombrely, “happened not too long ago. We’ve been here for about six hours or so, if I were to guess. The news came in a couple of hours ago, I heard a woman run into the main room next door. I knew something big must have happened because they all went silent and then...then people started shouting, some crying. I...” Varric stopped in order to rub at the bridge of his nose and shake his head, “it doesn’t seem real Hawke, like something out a fairy tale.”

“Or a nightmare,” Callum added quietly.

Hawke wasn’t sure if it was appropriate to add anything to that. He was still shaken by the news himself. He sat down beside Varric on the bench and sighed.

“I know,” he said, “Meredith...I spoke to Meredith.”

“You’ve seen her?” Varric frowned, “Why?”

“I was worried, I...” Hawke looked around him, noting the interested and intermittent stares of some of those in the room, “I can’t tell you here. Let’s just say that she wants to speak to Anders and I’m not happy about it.”

“She wants to speak to him?” Callum frowned worriedly, “What for?”

“Didn’t I just say that I can’t tell you?” Hawke bit out, “Look there’s something I need to do before it’s too late. Varric, I need you to go and find Merrill, I haven’t seen her since this all started and Marethari was worried about her.”

“Alright,” Varric nodded, not even questioning Hawke which the rogue was grateful for; the dwarf got down from the bench and stretched himself, “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Once you find her, I want you both to go straight back to the mansion, understand?” Hawke said.

“Whatever you say Hawke,” Varric nodded, “see you in a while.”

“Same goes for you,” Hawke reiterated to Callum as the tall man stood up and shook out his legs, obviously having been kneeling for a quite a while.

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell me what to do,” Callum said blankly, “anyway, after the last time we spoke I would have thought you’d enjoy seeing my head on a spike.”

“Oh for fuck's sake,” Hawke sighed in irritation, making Callum look at him with a frown, “if I wanted you dead Crummock you can be assured that I would have the balls to do it myself, not let someone else have the pleasure.”

“...Charming,” Callum drawled after a moment’s pause, yet he did seem to loosen up a little and, finally, continued, “fine. I’ll be a few more hours here I think. There are a lot of wounded.”

“Oh, here,” Hawke said, remembering that he still had a few potions on him from the supply Aveline delivered; he handed Callum two of the remaining lyrium vials, the tall man taking them with a look of slight surprise, “leftovers,” Hawke explained vaguely.

“Thank you,” Callum said stiltedly, putting one into his pocket while he popped the other open and drank it gladly.

Hawke left before things became any more awkward. He managed to escape the thronging mob of people, once more with Lirene’s help and with the vague promise to look for the Healer as soon as possible. In truth he wished that his next task was something that straightforward and rewarding.

Instead it was far more gruesome. Hawke had forgotten the smell that had poured from the bodies that sat, as they had been, in their perfect ring in the basement room in Fenris’s mansion. He stared at them, lying serenely in their pool of blood, and gagged. He felt dirty, as if he were disposing of a secret which he would rather see revealed so that the Magister’s corpse could be defiled in the way he had defiled those he had killed for his blood rite. He should be the one with his head upon the wall, Hawke thought angrily, he should be the one who is disgraced, as a warning to those who would come here to wreak havoc.

There was a furnace in the bottom reaches of the basement, a large, old wood fired furnace which stoked the tank of water above it for bath water. Hawke dragged the bodies down to the furnace one by one. They were heavy and stiff and the smell was almost unbearable up close. Most of them held faces unknown to him, unidentifiable corpses that the flames consumed. The only one he knew made him drop his head in grief. Nora’s face was pale, her lips blue and her arms sliced open, her wounds congealed and dark crimson, turning black. Hawke closed her eyes and murmured a prayer for all of their souls, as best he could remember it from the Chantry brothers who had said it over his father’s body in Lothering.

 

He had taken a perverse pleasure in burning Denarius’s corpse. He offered no prayer for the Magister.

* * *

 

It had been easier than he had thought convincing Anders to return through the underground rather than through the Eastern gate. Of course Anders believed him when Hawke relayed that the streets were still heavily patrolled and that he was under suspicion. The canyon, leading to the sewers of Kirkwall, became an obvious re-entry point. Thankfully this time there were no templars in sight.

Truthfully his reasons for keeping the grisly decorations at the Eastern gate a secret from Anders were both selfish and selfless simultaneously. Selfishly he did not want Anders to know of the beheadings purely because he knew the mage would be reckless and because he knew that Anders would have to speak to Meredith, and soon. Hawke would rather get that uncomfortable and potentially dangerous interview out of the way before Anders learned of the lengths Meredith had gone to in order to quell the ‘uprising’ as she had seen it. On the selfless side of things he did not want to see Anders upset. Hawke was sure he had vaguely recognised one of the faces of the executed mages and there was a good chance that Anders knew them. He had been through enough in the past twenty four hours without the burden of grief on top of that.

Further to being worried about Anders, Hawke found that Fenris was also becoming a concern. The elf was silent and sullen, yet not in his usual offhand manner. He seemed not to be aware of most of what was happening, in his own world as they walked, climbed and navigated the sewers. Hawke tried to engage him in simple conversation, asking him if he was alright, if he was hungry or thirsty, but the response was only ever a negative grunt or a simple ‘no’. It reminded Hawke of how Fenris used to act in the few weeks after they first met. The seeming regression only made him more concerned.

If he was to be glad of one thing it was that Sebastian was not very talkative, which was unlike him. The Chantry brother stayed close to Hawke and seemed to scan the countryside vigilantly as they walked. He seemed troubled, if his alert nature was anything to go by, but Hawke did not have the energy to ask him what was wrong. In truth he enjoyed the silence of their homeward journey. It was preferable to explaining any of the things he wished to keep quiet.

The sun was casting an evening glow when they finally arrived home, weary from their long walks on already tired legs and a night spent sleeping on the ground with nothing but bad dreams for company. Hawke was glad to find Bodahn, Sandal and Orana unhurt and the mansion as he had left it. He was also happy to find everyone there that he had asked to be. Merrill was ecstatic to see them, running to each of them in turn to smother them in a hug and blurt out her relief. She even got so carried away that she gave Fenris the same treatment without thinking. The sullen elf didn’t seem to know what to do when she crushed him in her arms. He stood there and took it nonetheless. Hawke took it as a good sign at least, even if he did have to go over and prise Merrill off of him.

“Alright, I know that this has been a stressful time, everyone, but I think it’s best if we all stay together for the time being,” Hawke said as he turned back to the group, hoping to get everyone distracted so he could get Anders alone and keep him from any unsavoury news, “and I think that rest would be the best thing for all of us...”

“The...what did you say?”

Hawke stopped talking at the interruption, not only because it was Anders’ voice but mainly because of the tone. Everyone had turned on hearing the question, stuttered out in a half joking, half disbelieving tone. On spying who Anders was standing beside Hawke’s anger rose and his hopes plummeted. How could he have been so stupid, he thought as he rushed over to Anders’ side as the mage looked at Callum. The tall man was looking back at Anders in confusion, as if he couldn’t understand why Anders was perplexed by what he was saying.

“What are you talking about?” Anders asked Callum again, this time more stoutly, “Executions? What is...what do you mean _executions_?”

“Anders, calm down alright, let’s not talk about this here,” Hawke said, taking hold of Anders’ arm gently; he knew it was a mistake as soon as he had said it, but by then it was too late.

“Let go of me!” Anders started badly, flinching away, “you know what he’s talking about? Tell me, has someone been killed? Tell me!”

No-one would answer, not right away. Anders looked to each of them in turn, some solemn and some just as confused as he was. Hawke wasn’t sure if there was any way to salvage this situation. He was going to find out sooner or later, he tried to reason, but if only he could have found out _later_. Hawke sighed and tried to think about the best way to put it without causing a panic. However, he was beat to the punch.

“I heard that four mages were caught using blood magic during the panic,” Callum said stoically, holding Anders’ attention as if there was no one else in the room at all; Hawke ground his teeth but stayed quiet, “they were sheltered by a couple, but they were all found. Then...Meredith had them executed.”

“She had them...” Anders’ voice trailed off and he seemed to stare, wide eyed, off into the middle distance, “I...I don’t...”

“Listen to me, there’s nothing you can do right now,” Hawke knew his words were futile but he never would have forgiven himself if he didn’t at least try to make the situation a little better; However, Anders was having none of it.

“Who was it?” Anders asked suddenly, his now intense gaze snapping back to Callum, making the tall man shuffle uncomfortably on his feet, “Tell me who it was!”

“I didn’t get the names,” Callum muttered out, “Varric and I heard about it from someone else. I don’t know. She put their heads over the East gate.”

“Fuck,” Anders said, but the word was said with surprising softness, as if the mage couldn’t believe what he was saying, never mind what he was hearing “ _fuck_. I don’t believe this, I can’t...” he turned to Hawke, looking a little lost, “you knew, didn’t you.”

It wasn’t a question, Hawke knew it wasn’t. There’s no point in lying to him now, he thought. Hawke nodded to him, wary of Anders’ reaction. Everyone else didn’t seem to know where to look. There was an uncomfortable silence.

“Do you know who...who it was?” Anders asked him.

“No,” Hawke replied simply.

“...Take me to the East gate,” Anders said after a moment’s pause, his tone resolute, a jarring contrast to the whisper quiet disbelief from before.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Hawke said strongly, holding Anders’ gaze no matter how accusing it was, “you have no idea how many templars are...”

“Do I look like I give a flying fuck what the _templars_ are doing right now!?” Anders interrupted, his shout seeming overly loud in the awkward silence, “I said take me to them!”

“Please, Blondie,” Varric spoke up; Hawke hoped his placating tone would be enough to calm Anders down, but he knew that was a long shot, “you won’t be doing anyone any favours if you get caught now. Except Meredith of course.”

“They can just bloody try,” Anders said, his voice a thin hiss, his eyes belying his fury, “if you won’t go with me I’ll go alone. I can’t...I have to see.”

Then, with those words, Anders turned and stormed towards the front door. Hawke balked, looked around him in disbelief and then quickly ran after the mage. He tried a few more futile efforts to make Anders see reason but the mage would not have it. Hawke decided that, at the very least, he could go with him and keep him as safe as possible. He did throw an ugly glare over his shoulder at Callum before he left; to his credit Callum did look abashed. Still, Hawke was sure he would feel much better later after he had punched some sense into the idiot.

* * *

 

They had taken the sewers back down under Lowtown and then out to the Wounded Coast from there. Hawke was ready to fall asleep standing up by the time they reached the Eastern gate. He was only just compos mentis enough to keep Anders from wandering right up to the gate and standing in full view of the city guard posted there. It was dark by the time they got there but the torches upon the crenelations lit the wall quite adequately. He wished that it wasn’t so. If they hadn’t been there he wouldn’t have had to watch his love’s face go through the motions of recognising someone he knew as a head skewered on a spike.

Admittedly Anders had stopped even before Hawke put his hand on his arm to prevent him going further. When Hawke looked to him Anders’ eyes were open wide and his lips were slightly parted. He thought Anders might have spoken but no words came out as the mage moved his mouth. Hawke tried to comfort him but Anders didn’t seem to be listening. Instead he looked to the ground, fidgeted aimlessly for a moment and then turned around and walked out into the darkness. Hawke stumbled after him and managed to keep up, hissing out for the other man to stop.

“Please, Anders, I can’t walk any further,” Hawke said in as loud a voice as he would allow himself to; his legs were weak and his knees felt as if they were about to buckle. He watched gladly, feeling guilty for putting his needs over Anders’, as the mage stopped walking.

There was a short pause as Anders just stood there, a vaguely defined shape in the gloom, facing away from him, unmoving. Unsure of what to say, Hawke watched him. Eventually Anders turned around, watching Hawke with an entirely blank expression upon his face, and said,

“Alright. Let’s go home.”

Hawke tried to take comfort in the fact that Anders had at least called it ‘home’. He walked up to Hawke and touched his hand to the rogue’s arm, letting out a swift rejuvenation spell. The energy it gave would be fleeting overall but Hawke was buoyed by the thought that he would at least be able to make it home. The thought of sleeping in the sewers was not appealing.

There was no-one there when they returned to the mansion. Hawke guessed they were all asleep by now, or perhaps that they hadn’t even headed his warning and had decided to return to their homes. He hoped that they were all simply in the many guest bedrooms, sleeping soundly. Right now he just wanted to know that everyone was safe. At that moment, it was all that he could ask for.

They had entered the bedroom to find the fire burning and their night clothes laid out neatly on the freshly made bed. Hawke would have kissed Orana right then if she’d been close enough. The effects of Anders' spell were beginning to wear thin and the fatigue was swiftly catching up with him. Considering the amount of shock and pure physical effort he had put himself through in the past couple of days, Hawke was ready to sleep for a week. He walked over to the bed and picked up his thick winter nightclothes, turning to look at Anders who was standing stock still in the middle of the room, staring at the rug beneath his feet as if he wanted nothing more than to burn it to ashes.

“Anders...” he began, not having any real clue what he was going to say next.

“Don’t,” Anders interrupted abruptly, his tone dangerous, “whatever you’re about to say just...don’t.”

Hawke watched the mage lift his hand to his forehead agitatedly, swallow, then pull his hand back to his side fitfully before striding out onto the balcony and out of sight. He did not follow, not because he did not want to but more because he knew it would not be appreciated. Instead Garret decided that sweet sleep was something he would have to wait for, just that little bit longer. He thought of simply going to bed and waiting for Anders to join him, but he didn’t trust the mage not to fall asleep on the balcony in the freezing cold. He was that stubborn after all. So, instead he took a seat beside the roaring fire, glad on some level for the comfort it gave. He watched the flames lick at the stone behind them and dance restlessly.

How has it come to this? It was where every train of thought ended. Hawke had known that Meredith was a tyrant, he had known as soon as he had spoken to her after she had taken control of the Viscount’s position. She was a power hungry, paranoid, hard line templar with no respect for the lives of mages when compared to those she saw as ‘normal’. She believed what she was doing was in the best interests of both sides. The sickening thing was that, on some level, Hawke could see where she was coming from. He could understand how she could be pushed to such extremes. Everyone was changed by what they saw, Hawke knew that better than most. How the dire, perverse, blood soaked events you encountered could twist you, just that little bit, until you began thinking that the terrible things you were doing were somehow rational, somehow _needed_.

Yet then he would think of Bethany. Think of her stuck in that tower, trapped in with the one person who seemed to think it no more than justice to stick a mage’s head on a spike if they did not conform; And it made the hairs raise on the back of his neck, his shoulders tense and his gut roil. He felt sick, leaning forwards with his elbows on his knees while he tried to banish the thought of his sister dead and mutilated.

Of Anders dead. Blood covering the ground. Skin cold to the touch. Pulse erased.

Hawke took a deep breath and sniffed, opening his eyes to once more watch the flames. The fire brought the heat back to his chilled flesh. He flicked his eyes up to the balcony door, watching. No movement but the floating of the curtains in the breeze. No sound but for the light tapping of rain upon the stone.

The main door to the landing opened but Hawke did not turn his gaze; “I...I made some tea, if you would like some Serrah?” Orana’s tone was hesitant and yet forcedly cheerful. Hawke looked round lethargically to see her standing in the doorway with a tray of cups and a teapot which steamed at the spout. It appeared not everyone had gone to bed then, Hawke thought. When he did not answer she walked in regardless, her footsteps nothing but a soft patter.

“You’d best drink it,” she said, setting the tray down on one of the side tables and hurriedly setting out two cups; Hawke opened his mouth but wasn’t sure whether he wanted to tell her to leave or to stay. He watched her work and, when she bustled over and handed him the steaming cup all he could say was, “Thank you.”

“I made one for Serrah Anders too,” she said brightly, “is he on the balcony? I’ll just...”

“No! No it’s fine, I’ll take it to him,” Hawke half stood out of his chair to stop Orana in her tracks, slopping his tea onto the saucer, “you just...you just relax for a little while, alright? You’ve been run off your feet I’m sure.”

“It’s really no problem,” she said, looking a little startled, yet as Hawke put down his cup and sighed, she seemed  only to grow more melancholy, “I understand. I mean...I mean I hope the tea helps.”

Hawke did not miss the small sob that escaped as she rushed for the doorway. Or at least he thought he hadn’t, until he realised it was not Orana who had made the noise at all. Hawke felt his chest tighten as he walked to the balcony door and leaned out.

Anders stood at the end of the balcony. It was dark, but for the pale light which filtered out through the gaps in the curtains, but he was unmistakably crying, holding his hand over his mouth to stifle the sound. Hawke let out a soft breath as he silently crept out onto the balcony, taking the distraught man into his arms without any preamble. Anders turned almost violently in his hold until he was pressed tightly against Hawke’s chest, his hands clinging to the rogue’s sides as he desperately tried to smother his sobs in the man’s shoulder. It was impossible to gauge how long he stood there, holding Anders, until the sounds stopped and all he knew was the cold and the wetness on his hair and his face. Hawke looked up to find the half moon shining in the cloudless sky and realised that it had stopped raining.

“Come inside,” he said softly, “Orana made tea.”

The cups which had been poured were cold but the tea in the pot was still fairly warm. Hawke sat Anders down carefully on the twin seat by the fire before quickly emptying the two cups off of the balcony and refilling them from the pot. He handed Anders his cup carefully, making sure the mage had a hold of it before he let it go and sat down next to him. They sat in silence but for the occasional noisy sip.

“You know,” Anders’ voice was almost jarring in the silence when he finally spoke, his voice scratchy and hoarse; Hawke listened, watching his silhouette against the fire, “she was always worried about me. She used to scold me, _scold_ me, can you believe that? I mean I’m thirty three for Maker’s sake yet Sabine she...”

He trailed off. Hawke watched as Anders took another sip of lukewarm tea before continuing.

“She always knew better,” Anders’ pale voice was suddenly hard, angry, “The last words she spoke to me. Two days ago, has it only been two days? It feels like a lifetime. ‘That’s not the point’. That’s what she said to me, and you know what? She was right Hawke. We were talking about...” suddenly all the fight seemed to leave him and Anders sat forwards, leaning his elbows on his knees, his back hunched, “...she was telling me off for being late, to an exchange. We meet up to move supplies sometimes and...and I was late. Fritt said it didn’t matter cause he wasn’t followed and she said that wasn’t the point. She was right. She was right, that wasn’t the point. The point was that we had to be there in the first place, running around the under-city like rats, scared of our own shadows, unable to be seen together, to walk freely, to live like anyone else has the right to!”

The fervour there was reminiscent of Justice, Hawke though unsettlingly. Yet when Anders turned to look at him over his shoulder, his face was fallen and distressed.

“The point is that this should never have been allowed to happen,” Anders said in a hoarse whisper, “and nobody stopped it because no-one cares what happens to us. They’re too scared of Meredith and her cronies to stop six people being slaughtered right in front of them.”

Hawke allowed the silence to hang. He had no idea what to say. Nothing would make it better and the last thing he wanted to do was make it worse. He stood up and stoked the fire, throwing a couple more of the bigger logs from the pile by the grate, and picked up one of the spare blankets he kept in the hope chest at the end of the bed. He sat back down next to Anders and drew the thick blanket around the other man, pulling him against his side. Anders was surprisingly compliant, allowing Hawke to almost lay him down, crushed together for warmth. The silence was only broken by the crackling of the fire. It went on for so long that Hawke assumed Anders had fallen asleep, what with the man’s regular breathing against his neck.

“It’s not right,” Anders’ voice startled Hawke when he spoke, making him jerk out of the sleep he’d almost slipped into, “she wouldn’t have done it.”

“What?” Hawke asked sleepily.

“Sabine, she was wise and kind and always there for everyone when they needed her,” Anders said softly, slowly, as if he were trying to work it out in his mind as he spoke, “and she hated blood magic more than all of us. I never knew why. I always assumed something bad had happened to her because of blood magic, but she hated it all the same. She would never have used it, _never_. But they killed her anyway. Fritt and Belda and Marnie. Even Thayls and Sherron. All they did was try to help, do their best to protect us. Now they’re all dead, and for what? She never would have used it, none of them would. I don’t understand.”

Hawke ran his hand across Anders’ shoulders, rubbing slow circles against the man’s back. He watched the fire dancing and the white hot coals at the base, fluorescing with the heat. Sometimes there isn’t anything to understand, Hawke thought sleepily, sometimes it was the simplest answer that was the right one. Unfortunately, if that were true, then Meredith had put six people to death purely to prove a point rather than punish any real crime and, on top of that, Cullen was also culpable.

As he finally drifted off to sleep, unsettling thoughts on his mind, he thought he heard Anders murmur something softly, almost inaudibly.

“If it’s a life given for a promise, then can a promise be given for a life?”


	12. Dear

 

Dear Fate,

I used to have dreams, when I was little. Recurring dreams. I wouldn’t go so far as to call them nightmares, even though they scared me at the time. Yet it wasn’t the run of the mill sort of terror, the monster under your bed kind, or the giant spider on the ceiling kind. There was a horrible sense of foreboding that came with that dream, a single minded terror that it would one day come true and that I would never really know when that day would be.

I leave my room, I turn to my right and there is a man there, someone I have never seen before. He is tall, with long hair and ragged clothes. His eyes are red and consumed completely by anger. They are glassy with what could be tears. There are black smudges upon his face. Before I can call out he rushes at me with a speed that seems unavoidable, inevitable. Before he reaches me, claw like fingers outstretched, the dream ends. I awake, panting and gripping the sheets between my fisted hands, staring up at whatever ceiling I happen to be under. The dream never _ends_ , so to speak, considering I never find out what the phantom man’s intent is.

Yet I fear. I can feel it lingering after I wake, refusing to leave me as I stare into the dark shadows of the room. It clings to me as I step out of the bed, force myself to creep to the door and walk out into whatever lies beyond the doorway. He is never there and yet his anger and the fear are.

I feared that he would kill me because the inevitability within the dream was so overwhelming. For a long time I feared that he might be my death. I had heard of such things, people receiving omens, seers who proclaimed to know the moment and method of their death. There was an old man in our village, his name was Swan. There were rumours that he knew the workings of magic but it was never a fruitful story. People who fell sick went to him and nine times out of ten they recovered. I have a vague, almost surreal memory, of being taken to him by my mother when I was probably about five? Six? He is a tall, dark, grim shaped memory in my mind. His words are warm but strange, as are his actions as he heals me. He speaks of the hill upon which my house is built, about how it is an ancient place with a long history. As he lets a glow loose from his hand to my chest I remember him saying that he was to die a month from then and when he died he would be welcomed back into the earth, back into the halls of his ancestors beneath that hill.

My mother told me that I was not to listen to the ghost stories of an old man. Yet, when Swan died just over three weeks later he was placed into the earth in the graveyard beneath a shabby stone and surrounded by the dead. There were a few who said, in the weeks to come, that they saw him walking up the hill towards our house. Thorarin the goat herd even said he’d seen a doorway open in the hillside and a light had poured out, sounds of a party emanating from within, into which Swan was welcomed smiling.

No one believed him of course, except the other eccentrics. And myself; I wanted to believe such a thing was possible, that there would be no fear of death if death could be welcomed as a friend. Yes, I was a morbid child, but then I had witnessed death in two of his guises before I was even twelve years of age. My first cat, drowned in a river by a selfish bully and, later but by no means lesser, a man stabbing another man in the street. Both had rather unfortunate consequences, the latter far more than the former. The former had me nearly perform my first murder, however inadvertantly. The latter allowed me understand that benevolence was not always rewarded.

I had tried my best to heal the man with the rudimentary magic which I had experimented with over the years since I had discovered my gift. In return he informed my father of what had happened and my father, in turn, informed to village elder. I was taken to Hossburg two days later, kicking and screaming.

But yes, anyway, I’m getting off point aren’t I? The man in the hallway with the red eyes and the fearful anger. That's what I was talking about. What I mean to say with the analogy of dear old Swan is that I have always had a certain, frustrating relationship with the idea of Fate. Yes, I capitalised the word and with good reason. As I view it Fate is its own entity. At times I refuse to believe in it and at others I can only hope that it does exist. Sometimes I get stuck in between. Still, it is something more than a philosophical idea and less than a true being. I would define it as a myth: something one pretends not to believe in and yet, in the small child-like part of their brain, still can’t help but hold onto. It rules people’s lives, or their perceptions of that life. It twists and turns people from one thing into another and yet, simultaneously, it does not exist.

It is an anomaly. If you let it into your life you begin to see patterns that did not appear before, you begin to feel that nothing you do will matter as it is all planned out, that free will is a lie and that your life from birth to death is one big story book written by some benevolent deity.

Or you avoid it, you disregard it, you actively stay away from it and keep it out of your affairs. You believe that everything you do is due to your will imposed upon the circumstances you encounter. You are at the centre of your own universe and everything spans out from you, not you circling around Fate, caught in its cyclical pull, churning in its gravity.

Fuck, how did I get so bloody philosophical? I was supposed to be keeping this simple and sticking to the point. I always have been good at wondering off, and that’s an understatement for the ages right there. Something that would make Garret smile like he does when he thinks I’m not looking, a small quirk to the lips, a crinkling of the eyes--

Well, it was only a matter of time before I had to bring that up, wasn’t it. It was a slip of the tongue, maybe, or perhaps it was what I wanted to talk about and my pen simply helped me along. It does that sometimes. It’s like having an annoying, over-protective older sibling who’s always right. Still, whatever it was, Hawke had to come into it sooner or later. It was just sooner than I’d like perhaps. But, maybe not. I do have to bring up some other things before I talk about him after all.

I stopped having that recurring dream when I was about sixteen years old. Yes, it went on for a long time, recurring every second or third night, and it sort of engrained its way into my memory. That was the year I met Karl. Fate rears its head again, sniffing around for a pattern, for something to link one thing to another. I don’t know. Perhaps meeting Karl did cure some odd insecurities in me, some hidden fears about death and even life. So I began to think that the dream was only symbolic, something in which my childish mind had summed up all of its fears about the death it had been introduced to far too young: the distant father and the over-protective mother, the knowledge that I was always different and yet not truly understanding why, the prejudice that it was exposed to and could not comprehend. The man in the hallway was the monster I had inside of myself which I could not face.

This is what my adult mind understood, this is what my adult mind finally concluded years later and, if I may say so in a very sarcastic tone, felt very proud of itself for its conclusion, no matter how wrong it was.

I say wrong but truthfully it wasn't  _wrong_ ; only misguided. Not even misguided. immature, yes that's a better word for it. I have a new theory now, something that has changed because I have a new perspective and a new memory; a new understanding. Does Fate throw this my way? Or have I figured it all out for myself? The anomaly of Fate, being that it exists whether you believe in it or not.

I could believe that Fate brought me Hawke. It would be wildly irresponsible and against my principles but sometimes I like to entertain the thought. We both came together with entirely different agendas and yet ended up recognising enough similarity within ourselves that something connected. If I hadn’t chosen to flee to Kirkwall we never would have even met, despite both living in the same country for years. It could even be said that it was Fate that Hawke had magic in his family, that it allowed him to accept me for all that I was when we met. Even the horrible things could be Fateful, if I am being masochistic enough. On the day I was attacked by Ser Alric, that day that the brand was sealed onto my left hand, Hawke came to my rescue. He saved me from myself in a way that no other could have done. On the day Hawke died I managed to save him with a foolish bargain-- I, well, I’m not sure where I’m going with that. Well, no I do know where I'm going with it but I'd rather not think about it right now. Too close, too close to everything. Let's get back to the subject at hand. Yes, Fateful encounters, alright. There are lots of encounters I’ve had that I could say Fate predicted for itself, such as running into Cousland and the benevolent King Alistair. Being brought to Ferelden in the first place. Being taken from my home by a templar kind enough to allow me compassion.

Oh, yes, I’ve never mentioned him have I? Kári; I don’t like to call him Ser Kári, it seems off somehow. I think I only knew him for a grand total of a few weeks and yet, in that short and rather traumatic time, he was a source of constant patience. If it weren’t for him I’m sure templars would have become irreversibly disgusting in my eyes. He allowed me to keep the pillow, which the other templar had tried to grab from me and discard. When we arrived at Hossburg he did not drag me from the wagon but, instead, sat just beyond the open doorway until I emerged an hour and a half later. He talked to me, always talking, when he got the chance. I remember his friendly smile and his large hand patting my head even as I simply looked back with mute sadness and resentment.

Right, there I go again, anything but stay on topic. So: the man in the hallway. I feel that there is something Fateful even in this, the act of writing this down at all. Committing it to paper makes it real, somewhat, doesn’t it? I don’t know, maybe that’s just superstition. Maybe. Or perhaps it’s just that same fear. The fear that the man in the hallway always instilled within me when I turned and stared at him for that split second before he lunged: the fear of the inevitable. A fear of Fate.

Because I know him now. Perhaps it was because it’s been years since I had that recurring dream, long years allowing for that dream to be replaced with countless others. Yet it always lurked there, dark in my memory but not lost. And now I know him, now I know the man with the reddened eyes and the anger, the ragged clothes and the long, dishevelled hair. I do not know his face but I do know his intent, I recognise his irredeemable nature, the fact that he has nothing to lose, his eyes red rimmed from the tears that he will not let fall, the betrayal that seems to power his anger, the violence it spurs.

I know him now because he is me. He is the other half of me which I have lost, the other half of me that is coming back to the fore now that Justice and Vengeance are now gone beyond my reach. The man in the hallway is what I have simmering beneath my skin every time I realise that I am still awake when the anger takes over. I became so used to the terrible blanks in my memory when Justice rose and Vengeance smiled as he killed. Now I can see the man in the hallway staring back at me in the eyes of others as I lunge at them, as I grab at their bodies and twist and crush their limbs, as I watch their blood spill, as I hear their screaming pleas, as I watch them beg me for a mercy which does not exist. It is not a realisation that I cherish but nonetheless it is true.

Now, as for Fate in relation to this dream, I’m sure you’re wondering why I even brought it up. Well, the thing is that I had this dream again last night. That’s why I’m writing this, why I’m even awake at all at four in the morning in the study with three candles on the desk, scratching away at this paper instead of sleeping beside my love as I should be. I had the dream again last night, the dream of the man in the hallway, and it scared me that, in that split second I could see it the other way. For one moment I thought I could recognise the desperation I felt, the need to get away, the fear of inevitability, as that of a victim and not as a perpetrator. I knew, as I watched him bear down upon me, that I was not the victim.

I ~~didn’t mean to~~     ~~managed to~~

I killed four people two nights ago. I could go into it, I could try and explain, try and rationalise it all, but that would only be a desperate attempt to make myself feel less of a monster. I killed them, three men and a woman, four templars. I took their helmets and I replaced the heads upon the Eastern Gate with them. I can say that at the time I hadn’t thought about the numbers not matching, that it was six for four, six of my friends for four of their own. Still, I can’t say I was in a fit state of mind.

No. No, you see? There I go, rationalising it. Trying to call it by another name. Retribution? Trying to call it retribution when it was nothing but vengeance. Have I learned nothing from my life? Do I refuse to understand what Justice taught me from our ordeal together? I thought I was stronger than this but it appears I am not. I thought I would be the sort of person who understood what was valuable and what wasn’t, what lessons to learn and what ones to fight against.

It appears not. Instead I am a terrible ignorer of things that should not be ignored, in any circumstances. I am the man who makes a promise to himself only to end up breaking it. I am the man who plans ahead only to end up not even following that plan and, instead, messing everything up. I am the man in the hallway: rash, angry, irresponsible and unreliable. I do not know how I will face Garret tomorrow because Aveline will surely be coming to speak to us and once he hears about it he’ll know what it means. He’ll know it was me.

He always knows when it’s me. Maybe because he knows me too well. I used to think that was endearing but perhaps now it’s only a hindrance. And, even if by some miracle he doesn’t think I am responsible, I’m not sure I could live with the guilt of deceiving him. I have lived with enough guilt in my lifetime to make the Maker himself weep. If he even existed at all, that is. Which he doesn’t. I am becoming the thing which I used to believe was only due to my rash decision to join with my friend, Justice. The angry young man I used to be. Yet now it’s all on the surface and everything that is happening in this terrible, awful, disgusting city is designed solely to break me open and let the man in the hallway loose.

So, in the end, I don’t really know what this is. A memoir of some sort? An apology? To whom? I’m not sure. No one is ever going to read it but me. I’m only writing it because I have to or I’ll go mad. Maybe I can say it’s to Fate. Yes, I like that. My letter to the maniacal dictator of my life which I don’t even believe in. Perhaps I’ll even address this letter to you. To the one thing I have left to blame things on when everything goes wrong and I don’t want to believe I am to blame.

Yes. I think that is only fair. A goodbye letter to Fate. For I am through with fobbing off responsibility onto others. I have to face it one day, don’t I? Today seems as good a day as any, really. So, I suppose that’s where I leave you; with me off to face everything that you have to throw at me, even if it is the man in the hallway or the realisation that I am everything I ever feared.

I suppose I can learn to deal with that without you.

Yours Faithfully,

~~Leif Rødberg~~

Anders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this seems excessively vague, the next chapter will go into more detail, I promise!


	13. Mouth (part 1)

' _I am Justice, I am Vengeance; blood may only be repaid in blood._ ' (DA:O)

* * *

"I won't allow it," Hawke said in a harsh and yet steadily cold voice.

"This is not a request, Champion," Meredith replied just as coolly.

"Oh, no need to fight over me," Anders smiled just to see the pair of them eye him with distaste and annoyance respectively, "there's plenty to go around."

It had not been the most fun of mornings, despite the previous night's reconciliation. He and Hawke were tentatively and warily happy, or they had been until the morning's light brought with it the reminder of the trip to the Gallows. News of the heads upon the wall was still rife in Kirkwall, muttered as rumours by those who hadn't seen them, and whispered in fearful tones by those who had. The event fully overshadowed the Magister's rampage, small and inefficient as it had been, and the fact that Danarius had completely destroyed the frontage of the Hanged Man as well as killed a few people seemed pale in comparison to their leader's, Meredith namely, sudden militant turn. For once Anders was glad that everywhere he went he heard her name, spoken with fear and distaste. The fact that the heads had been replaced with templar helmets only a few days later had also caused quite the stir; Anders' mouth quirked to a resolute line at the thought. A declaration, that's what it had been. Or that is what it had become. A declaration of intent. You attack us, we are willing to defend ourselves by any means necessary. He hoped it had been as much as a wake-up call for Meredith as her own executions had been for the mages of Kirkwall. He hoped it had that effect, mainly because, without that, it would become nothing but slaughter. The thought made him clench his fists at the memory of that night.

Of course, Anders had known Hawke would be the sore point of his resolution. Anders had forced himself to come to terms with his decision, taken great pains to understand once again what he must do in order to bring this terrible despotism in Kirkwall to an end. He was not happy about it, in fact it was depressing him to be honest, knowing what he would have to do. Knowing the countless lives that would have to be lost, something he had spent years trying to think of a solution to. Now the time had come and Anders had been forced to realise that when the steady hand of War knocked upon your door, you answered with your sword drawn or risked dying upon it. Anders was not willing to take that risk, not until his task was done.

Unfortunately Hawke did not seem as understanding or resolute as Anders had forced himself to be. After the executions Hawke had been doing his usual fare; playing life as if nothing had happened whilst still being overly cautious where Anders was concerned. He treated him like a piece of broken china cradled in his hands, something he was trying desperately to put back together. Yet after the templar incident Anders knew he had been right about his suspicions. Hawke knew. He didn't know how, he didn't know  _exactly how_ , but Hawke knew exactly who had made an example of the templars and essentially declared a beginning to what would not stop until one side was utterly defeated. In truth Anders still wasn't sure how he felt about Hawke's inability to even face him about such a matter. Thankfully, in the end, their silence had to be broken and the night they spent together had been a soft warmth amid the echoing cold. Unfortunately, when Anders had decided to take the morning of the meeting to talk to Hawke, their conversation had devolved rapidly into the very topics they had been steadily ignoring over the previous few days. The main one being not the most heated topic but, assuredly, a bone of contention:

"I have to go Hawke," Anders had said with a sigh, hand on his hip as he watched the man pace before him in front of the fire, "she'll only make life harder for you if I don't. I don't want her using Bethany as leverage to get her way. And anyway, it'll make the templars more suspicious if I refuse to go."

"I understand that," Hawke had replied, folding his arms, "but I still don't have a fully developed plan as to how to go about it," Anders knew he was stalling but didn't bring the issue to the fore, "We can't just go to a meeting with the Knight Commander without a plan, Anders. She'll have one, so I want one. You  _know_  she'll want to keep you there, she's been desperate to lock you up in that place since the moment you met."

"Yes, well," Anders had said with a small smirk, "I suppose I didn't make the best first impression."

"This is no time for your jokes," Hawke had said seriously; Anders could see the rigid and yet subtle panic in Hawke's eyes as he walked forwards to stand directly in front of him, "you know it isn't."

"Yes," Anders nodded, "well aware, but right now there isn't much else to do, is there. We can't have a plan without knowing Meredith's intent. I think that she suspects me of being the mage who killed the templars in Hightown during the magister's attack."

"You  _are_  the mage who killed the templars," Hawke had said.

"You're preaching to the choir, Hawke," Anders had returned tightly, "but she doesn't know that. So, if I know my templars, I think she will try and take me in for questioning."

"Which will not happen," Hawke had said quickly.

"I think," Anders had said, trying to overrule Hawke's fervent panic, "that our best option is to play this by ear. We will respond with whatever we think is best at the time. And if it makes you feel any better we can take some backup. How about Varric? He's good at talking his way out of situations."

"And Fenris," Hawke had added, making Anders want to argue but hold his tongue; the last thing he had wanted was a full blown argument, "I don't want to get Aveline involved, it might put her in a difficult position if we have to go against the Knight Commander's wishes, but I want a solid sword hand at my back, just in case."

Agree to pacify, that had been Anders' plan in the end. Agree with everything that Hawke wanted in order to give the man a false sense of control. False, mainly, because Anders already had his own plan, one that Hawke would never in all of eternity agree to. He had even had a little bit of difficulty bringing the resistance members around to the plan, most of them being utterly set against it and with good reason. Most of them saw it as suicide and, truthfully, Anders couldn't fully disagree. However, the opportunity it would grant him with was too great to pass up. If it worked, that was.

In the end, after the meeting had been made, the group had been assembled and they had travelled on the small boat to the towering Gallows, it had turned out just as Anders had surmised. Not that it was any easier for Hawke to swallow, or the others for that matter, which had been why Anders had wanted to keep the involvement of their friends to a minimum. Meredith was not only insistent, Anders thought as he watched the Knight Commander and Hawke tightly and politely argue with each other in the small, cramped office, but already decided. Good, Anders thought as he watched the woman's pale blue eyes study Hawke intently, because so am I.

"Why should I not be present during this interrogation?" Hawke said, his voice rising slightly, showing his inability to reign in his control.

"This is not an interrogation, Champion," Meredith rebutted, "merely a questioning. Your mage will not be the first I have questioned in relation to the Hightown incident."

"Questioned is so vague a word," Varric said, waving his hand airily even as his eyes were sharp, "with too many connotations."

"Just as I'm sure the heads upon the Eastern gate discovered," Fenris said dryly to Varric, "to their detriment."

"That's enough," Hawke declared, surprising them, "I need all of you to wait outside, I want to talk to..."

"I'll do it," Anders suddenly butted in, making all eyes spring to him in shock; well, at least it's an entertaining reaction, he thought with little true humour. Meredith was the first to recover, eyeing him with interest.

"I'm glad that you finally see sense, mage," she said, eagerly unfolding her arms.

"What? No, we have agreed to nothing," Hawke said rapidly, "Anders I need to..."

"It's simple, isn't it?" Anders cut Hawke off once more, making the man's eyes flash with anger and anxiety; Anders ignored him and instead focused on Meredith, who was looking at him with suspicious curiosity, "You think I killed the templars in Hightown. Oh, you don't need to say it, I know you do, and anyway you've been dying to interrogate me for years now. Don't say you haven't. Well, how about I take all the fuss out of this situation and just go with you?"

"Are you mad..?" Fenris started just as Varric did.

"That sounds like a huge risk..." the dwarf said.

"Absolutely  _not_..." Hawke said sternly.

It had ended not as Hawke would have liked it. This was not because of resentment, not because of their arguments. Instead Anders felt it was something worse between them, worse because he was engineering it and, truthfully, it was incredibly risky. It had come to the point where he knew he was purposefully putting his cause before everything else, not only his own personal safety, but also before Hawke. He was making it dangerous for both of them, knowingly doing so. I'm sorry love, he had wanted to say, I wish I could trust you enough to tell you. It was a futile wish. Anders already knew that if Hawke found out his intentions he would be locked in the mansion for the rest of his life and never allowed to leave.

Not that he wasn't scared. Maker no, he was very much terrified of what was going to happen to him. The reward, only the reward kept his mind focused, resolute. Only the reward kept him fearless in the face of what was to come. He was marched away from the Knight Commander's office by two faceless templars, one on either side, with the sounds of a livid shouting match carrying on behind him. Anders hoped that Hawke would forgive him for making him worry himself into an early grave. He hoped with all his heart.

Well, she didn't waste any time, did she? Anders thought as he realised he was not being kept on the ground level of the Gallows but, instead, was being led straight down into the bowels of the hulk-like structure. The door before him opened like a predatory maw; dark, inviting and sufficiently one-way. Yet the thought, surprisingly, did not truly cross his mind. He would not be here for long, mainly because he refused to be.

Anders told himself again and again, as the door closed behind him, that his conviction would be enough.

* * *

_Five days before the present_

"You know, you should start charging rent," Anders said as he leaned over Hawke in order to snag a piece of beef from his plate, listening to the man's muttered and half hearted complaint with a small smile, "that would sort your problems, wouldn't it?"

"Ever the businessman," Hawke replied sarcastically, shaking his head and continuing to eat as if everything was normal, "I'd just love to know how much money you make curing all the poor, unfortunate souls in Darktown."

"I'm paid in self satisfaction," he said as he busied himself by the sink, grabbing some bread and cheese and stuffing it into a small cloth bag, before helping himself to a few of the choice pea pods lying in a bowl by the doorway, freshly picked from the garden.

"There's dumpling in the larder," Hawke said as Anders continued to root around for scraps, "and anyway, I'm not bothered about them staying here. I just wish things were a bit more manageable, that's all. It's not like we're destitute."

"I know that," Anders continued from the larder as he snaffled up the muslin wrapped dumplings, adding them to his stash; he emerged from the cool larder and looked at Hawke as the man picked at the food on his plate, "don't worry about it, alright?"

"...I'll do my best," Hawke said with a small smile that spoke volumes.

The exhaustion and worry behind that smile were what concerned him the most. Anders walked to Hawke and put his food down onto the table, leaning forwards in order to pull the man into a brief hug and place a kiss on his cheek. Thankfully, considering neither had much energy or positivity to give to the other, the simple gesture seemed to work for Hawke at least.

"It'll all work out," Anders said, even as the words stuck in his throat as he said them.

"You'll be back soon?" Hawke asked as the mage stood back up and made to leave.

"A few of hours or so," Anders said, picking up the bag of food before hurrying out of the kitchen, "don't stay up for me."

It was a cruel charade to cast over an already frayed situation. A false smile that came all too easily, smoothing away the glances that lingered just that moment too long, in which Hawke's brow would furrow slightly when he thought Anders couldn't feel him watching. Smiles to cover for the absences which were always longer than he tried to pretend they would be. Smiles to mask the steel countenance he wore underneath, a face he didn't want to show Hawke for many reasons.

The truth of the matter could be seen in the city around him. After the rampage of the Magister, Kirkwall had fallen back to its old ways. It was as if the city was simply shrugging off the event like a bad dream; one in a long list of terrible ordeals that the citizens had been forced to undergo, what was it to them?  _Not as bad as the time when_...that's what Anders heard as he walked through the cramped streets in Lowtown,  _But remember that awful fire in_...

All that was in the city's memory was death and destruction on a sliding scale of bad to worse, a collective consciousness of misery that had become a malaise, a conversation point which was soon forgotten. A Magister killing a dozen people? Kirkwall had seen worse. Try Qunari slaughtering dozens, setting the city ablaze and upending its governmental structure; try serial killers stalking the streets snatching women from their families like trinkets from a purse; try manic terrorists pouring poisonous gas onto entire districts causing the residents to die a lingering death or be driven insane. Kirkwall had become so black a stain on the landscape that it was impossible to become any darker. At least talk of the mage executions had not faltered, that much he could be grateful for. Talk of the grisly display was one thing which had not stopped, had not faded as others had. The thought made his footsteps fall faster, made his purpose grow stronger in his heart. He passed Lowtown, hurried through Darktown, carried on until he had climbed down into the sewers, stepped carefully around the detritus and the cracked walls, out and further until he emerged into the rolling, barren countryside beyond the walls as the sun began to sink beyond Sundermount. The aura of the setting sun blazoned the mountain with a pearlescent halo, sending the rest of its bulk into silhouette. Anders didn't look to it for too long, feeling the shadow of the mountain as if it reached out towards him. He carried on walking, only looking back to Kirkwall once.

He thought of Hawke as he looked to the Eastern gate. The long evening rays of sunlight glinted against the iron spikes which pushed through the stone like a perverse crown. He could not see the heads in the growing dusk but the outline of crows flapping their wings was enough to know they were still there. The cawing sent a wrathful spike of fury through him, made him curl his fingers into fists until he thought his nails might pierce his flesh. Anders forced himself to look away, back across the Wounded Coast as the last of the sunlight glinted in the bay, and continue walking.

He wasn't entirely sure if he had expected to find the room empty or not, or whether it would have meant anything if no one had been there. Instead he was greeted with four pale faces turning to meet his eye, some familiar, some not so. Does this mean we have a chance, that some will stand and fight, or does it merely doom us to a fate of violence and death? Anders walked into the abandoned mineshaft, dimly lit by torchlight, and focused only on the task at hand. There was no time for what ifs, only for the facts and what could be done about them.

No one had dared to meet after the executions. Everyone was terrified, for themselves and their families. That this many had managed to gather in one place so soon was something Anders decided to take as an encouragement more than a failure.

"You saw it?" Rayzla asked as Anders shut the door behind him and barred it as best he could.

"Yes," he replied simply, walking out into the centre of the room as his friends and comrades stood from their positions against the walls and on the floor; four in all, four for a dark purpose, "I saw it."

'It' was an adequate pronoun, as far as Anders was concerned. He couldn't refer to the sight he had seen above the Eastern gate as 'them'. They had been living, breathing people. The grizzly heads left as a warning had become nothing more than an 'it'; a symbol of their ever spiralling oppression. There was a moment of silence, although in truth Anders wasn't sure if it was in honour of the dead they had lost or if it was, instead, a selfish moment in which they all shared in each others' understanding and took solace from it.

"Someone aught to take 'em down," a young woman said, her hair short, dark, and her face gaunt; Anders wasn't sure he'd seen her before.

"Who is she?" Anders asked Rayzla, not masking the harsh tone of his voice; the woman's words had rankled him and Anders knew now that it was best to distrust strangers rather than openly accept them.

" _She_  is called Mara," the woman said with a raised eyebrow.

"She's a mate," Rayzla said, putting her hand on Anders' shoulder, "she's worked up at Dockets traders for six months, been helping me out, you can trust her."

"Six months isn't long," Anders said, looking straight at Mara even as the woman crossed her arms; he said no more but was sure that the look he'd given her made sure she knew she was being watched. He carried on into the chamber and the others followed, "Did you find him?"

"Yes," Darrien spoke up; one of the younger mages who haunted Darktown and occasionally sourced herbs and black market items for him. The whites of his dark eyes were stained red, his face drawn and pale. Anders reached out and, gently, placed a reassuring hand on the younger man's shoulder. As much solace as he could give. Darrien swallowed and seemed to unconsciously pull his shoulders back and stand up straighter, "we've been one step behind him for the last couple of days but he seemed not to want to leave the city."

"The templar patrols are still heavy," Rayzla said, arms folded, "and they've been manning the gates along with the Guard. Luckily for us I think he didn't know how to get out."

"We caught him trying to break into the stables down at the Western gate, he must've gotten desperate," Darrien continued, "the idiot nearly got himself nabbed by the templars before we got a shot at him."

"I told you not to put yourselves at risk," Anders said solemnly, forcing Darrien to look him in the eye when the younger mage avoided his stare.

"We couldn't let him get away," Farah stepped forwards, her face set, angry, her hair hanging limply over her hunched shoulders, "someone has to pay for what happened to Sabine."

"And the others," Darrien said sharply, making Farah scowl, "and  _everyone_  that comes next. Meredith won't stop here. She's already shown what she's capable of."

"Alright, that's enough," Anders said; the last thing they needed was to fight amongst themselves. The mages shuffled on their feet but Anders refused to waste any more time, "where have you put him?"

"Downstairs," Rayzla said sarcastically in her usual drawl yet, when Anders turned to look at the lithe woman, he could see the tight anger simmering beneath her derisive smile, "honestly, the pit we threw him in seems too good for him, but I couldn't think of anywhere else."

She led him over to an adjoining chamber, roughly hewn from the rock, the ground secured partially with planks of rotting wood. The room was small, a seeming offshoot of the main mineshaft which had been abandoned when the ground proved unstable. It was evident from the hole in the floor, a wide, jagged edged collapse which melted down into darkness. Anders could hear the vague sound of movement from below, a soft mumbling and perhaps a shuffling of a body across rock. He did not have to turn around to know that he was being followed by everyone else who had come.

"I'll do this alone," he said, tonelessly.

"I want to come," Darrien objected.

"So do I," said Rayzla, her eyes narrowed.

"No," Anders said sternly, taking the rope ladder from Rayzla's tight grip even as the woman sighed harshly; Anders attached it to a large iron ring in the wall, an old looking but sturdy piece of metal which he assumed had perhaps been used for this purpose decades before, "I won't have any of you endangering yourselves further. Besides, I'm the only one here who can talk to him. I want him alive long enough to give answers."

The threat behind his words was perhaps only obvious to those who had ever trespassed against Anders' fury. Darrien's lips thinned but he looked away guiltily, while the others shifted awkwardly on their feet or sighed in annoyance. Somehow, never truly knowing how he had ended up in this position, Anders had fallen into the role of unofficial leader. It was something he was glad for, as it made it easier to control the situation, and yet also a heavy burden that he begrudged to an extent. Everyone was looking at him with either resentment or a need to know the answers, a need to know what to do next.

Anders wished he knew himself. In truth he was making most of this up as he went along.

"We all want this finished," Anders said, trying to placate the angry and the sorrowful, "but we have to start somewhere and this man  _will_ help us."

"How do you figure that?" Rayzla asked, folding her arms and raising a sardonic eyebrow.

"Because, of all the options I'll give him," Anders said as he looked down at the dark hole, "cooperation will be the only one he'll want to choose."

He did not hesitate as he took hold of the rope, leaning backwards and feeling the grip of gravity against his body. The air grew cold as he descended in slow jerks, the rope burning against his un-gloved hand. The light grew dimmer and the sounds of voices grew quiet. Anders was surprised when he finally felt solid ground under his feet, his skewed sense of spatial awareness having been fooled into thinking the ground was still miles away. He let go of the ladder and looked around him into the pitch. The sudden sound of running feet didn't surprise him and Anders didn't feel the slightest remorse as he stepped to the side and let the man fall past him in a fit of flailing punches. He heard him cry out as he contacted heavily with the wall. Anders let loose a small light orb to illuminate his surroundings.

The rock wall was mainly dull, slate grey, but glistened here and there where water ran across its jagged surface. The pit was small but shaped like a bell jar, wide bottomed with a narrow opening, the floor uneven and cracked. Anders looked to his left to find the man curled in upon himself on the floor, his once fine clothes torn, dirty and ragged. He let out a stream of hacking coughs before forcing himself into a sitting position, propping himself against the wall and shielding his eyes from Anders' light spell. Anders himself watched him with a curiousness born of dispassion.

"So," he said in Tevene as he pulled out the small dagger from his belt; the man looked at him with a rising sense of fear and indignation, "what is to be done with the son of Danarius?"

* * *

_Four days before the present_

Eyes flitted open, shadows scattered like frightened rats into corners of his mind. Anders blinked slowly and watched the dream give way to the real. Yet, even as he sat up, feeling the covers fall away from his chest and the cool air bristle the hairs on his arms, he knew that the difference between the realms of his waking and of his sleeping were thin. Thinner than he would have liked.

The dream had continued, akin to the sun's silhouette after you closed your eyes against the glare, dancing there as a pale imitation of that bright light. So many and so fast, so varied and yet all linked in some bizarre way that he could not yet truly comprehend. It faded against his opened eyes but Anders could feel the bleeding between his realities and, in truth, that scared him more than the dreams themselves.

The madman in the hallway. The small child with the terrifying eyes and smile planted upon an innocent face. The mountaintop, harsh and jagged against the unnatural sky. Flashes of memories he didn't even know he had; a man screaming in a fire as his skin burned, the taste of blood in his mouth, the cold, dead embers all around him.

The most recent additions were the most vivid.

"You're letting the heat out, love," Anders jerked sharply from his reverie at the mumbled, half-asleep complaint, accompanied by a fumbling hand against his side.

"Sorry," he said softly, slipping out from under the covers before turning back to pull them up over Hawke, trapping what little heat remained within.

The man was asleep again before Anders began scouting the room for clothes. It had seemed wrong, somehow, to sneak back into his bed after the way he had spent his night. Yet, truthfully, he had needed that closeness more than ever. Taking solace in Hawke before he was sure the man would want nothing more to do with him.

And not only Hawke, he thought guiltily. So many things, so many lines of thought, rushing through his mind.

_"You want to know the things I've found?" he asked, knowing it was a foolish question, "The things I have learned?"_

_"I want to know what you plan to do next," Callum asked gravely, his eyes fixed upon the nothing between himself and the table he was seated at, his mouth half hidden behind his hand._

_"Then you ask too much of me," Anders replied, "I can only say, with certainty, that you do not want to know."_

The past and the future seemed to merge in his mind. From long before he was born to far beyond when he would surely die. His dreams spoke to him and, after being deprived of their presence for far too long while under Justice's thrall, Anders revelled in them just as he also feared them. Callum's concern was becoming all too familiar, so much so that sometimes Anders wondered if his own worry and hysteria were more obvious than he realised. In truth he wanted nothing more than to tell him, to tell someone, anyone, what he planned to do but the thought was sickening. He knew that it was wrong, he  _knew_  that more than he wished it was possible to understand, and yet in the end it did not matter.

In the end there was one adjective to describe his plan which could trump all others: necessary.

It did not make it palatable, only reminded him that his purpose was set rather than pliable. He could not be swayed because the consequences were too great. He must stay true to the cause or risk losing more than just his sanity; something he had realised during his talk with Danarius' son.

_The man called out harshly and scrabbled away from Anders as the mage shook his head. He had been getting nowhere with the wild eyed Tevinter. He hadn't even done anything to the man, not yet anyway, but he thought that perhaps memory of the beating Anders had given him was still fresh._

_"I don't want to hurt you," Anders said tightly as the man put his back against one of the few flat surfaces in the pit and watched him with wary eyes, "I only want you to answer my questions."_

_"Is he still alive?" Anders was almost surprised when the man spoke, so much so that he didn't entirely understand the question at first, "Y-you...killed my father?"_

_"...Yes," Anders replied in a subdued tone, "he is dead."_

_The confusion only heightened as the man visibly relaxed. He let his head drop forwards and his breathing slowed somewhat, his hands sliding down the wet wall to hang loosely at his sides._

_"Thank the Maker," the man said in a harsh whisper; Anders frowned, something the man must have caught sight of when he looked up as he continued, "you seem to think it was you that I feared. Sorry to disappoint you, but my father is not one to be outdone, and I fear him more than my own death."_

_It was as he stared at the man, lit harshly in the white light from his spell, that some sickening sort of truth tried to fall into place. Anders shook his head and wondered if it could really be true. From what Fenris had told him of Danarius, he wouldn't put anything too depraved past the man._

_"You're glad that he's dead?" Anders asked suspiciously._

_"Glad," the man laughed bitterly, shaking his head, "that is so tame a word, sire."_

_"But he was your father," Anders tried to reason, feeling a little hypocritical considering how he viewed his own father, "don't you care at all that he's gone?"_

_"Oh I care," the man said with a tight smile, "if being grateful is caring. I value my life, unlike my father did."_

_"...You knew he planned to kill you," Anders said softly, more as a realisation than any want of proof._

_"Yes," the man confirmed, pushing away from the wall and walking out into the base of the pit; Anders watched him warily, "I knew. I had my own plan for escape, one that involved us actually winning the fight however. I have to say that I was quite upset with you when you ruined that."_

_"I gathered that you might have been displeased," Anders said tonelessly, recalling the man's incessant screaming._

_"Still," the man said, seeming almost happy now that he had been informed of his father's demise, "I suppose I have you to thank for ridding me of that threat. I would almost be grateful, if you hadn't beaten seven colours into my skin and thrown me into this Maker forsaken hole."_

_This is slightly surreal, Anders thought, keeping his eyes trained on the man. Just because Danarius had been overtly evil in his intentions, didn't mean his son couldn't have learned the art of subterfuge and deception._

_"Actually," Anders said after a moment's pause, "it was Fenris who rid you of your father, not myself."_

_"Ah," the man said, nodding, even as his eyes lit up with dislike, "now there's no surprise in that. If there was anyone who hated the old bastard more than me, then it was Fenris. Only after the fool realised what being a slave truly meant, that was."_

_"You two didn't get along?" Anders asked the trivial question, trying to gauge the man's veracity in relation to simple questions._

_"Huh, Danarius treated him like more of a son than he ever did me," he said, "even if that was still not much to be raved about. At least he had father's trust. But enough of this," the man said suddenly, seeming to realise that Anders was leading him astray in their conversation, "that is unimportant. What I wish to know is what you intend to do with me."_

_That's a very good question, Anders had thought to himself as he looked to the man. Tall, but not overly so. Thin, his face slightly gaunt in the cheeks but his cheekbones high, making him look overly haughty without even trying. Dark hair that fell back from his forehead, thin lips, and, Anders couldn't help but notice, elegant hands with long fingers which the man was busy playing with distractedly. It was as Anders noticed all these small details that he realised he didn't have one of the more obvious ones._

_"What's your name?" Anders asked; surprisingly, the man looked taken aback, as if being asked his name was some sort of courtesy he wasn't often afforded._

_"I am called Tebrius," he said after a faltering moment._

_"You can call me Anders," Anders told him, slowly putting away his dagger and deciding to try for a more civil approach._

_"A pleasure," Tebrius said, his eyes glinting hopefully in the white light._

Anders shook his head as he walked through the stillness of the dawn, the metal of the study door handle cold beneath his palm as he turned it. He hoped he knew what he was doing.

The book sat, large and incongruous, upon the study desk where he laid it. A stray ray of sunlight escaped the closed curtains, heavy against the morning, but beyond that the room was dull with the glow of a scant few candles which he lit. Dark rooms for dark deeds, Anders thought as he reached out and ran his hand over the book's cover. It was cold to the touch, the binding's leather inlaid with rudimentary and yet impressive knot-work and filigree. It would have been beautiful were it not for the contents. It was almost fateful, Anders thought, as he sat forwards, took the cover in both hands, and lifted it open.

A gaping mouth stared back at him. He stared at it and, from its gilded illumination, the mouth appeared to stare back at him. It was disconcerting for many reasons, Anders thought. For one, it was no mouth as he would have ever recognised it on a living thing, instead a gaping chasm ringed by teeth; a vast, dark circle from within which arms and hands appeared to grasp outwards, desperate to escape. For two, surrounding the vile maw a soft fur appeared to be drawn, wisps of dark hair which gave the illusion that the mouth did in fact belong to a creature of some sort. For three, it sent a shiver of recognition down Anders' spine so vigorous that he felt the need to close the book and never open it again.

A great maw, led by the one whose eyes and teeth smiled in hideous satisfaction. Anders did not remember that particular dream in full, yet the memory of the small child beyond the door was haunting, as was the hideous thing which followed her. The wailing of a thousand souls rang from inside its depths as it hungered. Anders rubbed his arms to try and brush away the chill upon them, dragging his eyes towards the thick, black runes written on either side of the illustration. He used his index finger to trace over them as he read, trying his best to recall his training as he did so. Thankfully the first word was a simple one which he had seen many times before.

"Fade," he said softly to himself as he looked to the word; he began to list the other meanings he could call to mind, "underworld, landscape of dreams, nether. Something like that."

The next word took a little more time. Anders unraveled the two scrolls he had managed to acquire from a reliable source, a member of the resistance who still managed to keep her place in society as an unknown, and who had access to a noble's library. The scrolls were delicate and yet moderately untouched, allowing the codices upon their parchment to be clear and useful. The limited dictionary of words thankfully included the one Anders was searching for. When he found it his lips twisted wryly and he felt a little stupid.

"Mouth," he said with a tut, "I should have figured that out for myself," he muttered as he read out the further definitions, "maw, hole. Also adj. - devourer."

An adequate and yet somehow bleak interpretation; Anders had hoped that it wouldn't be something so dire. Why, he didn't know, considering the thing it was describing was certainly dire indeed. As he continued to read his eyes only grew harder. A description written in stark prose, the sentences short and to the point. By the time he had reached the end of the page, the stylised calligraphy coming to an end, he had been left with an indelible image in his mind of what it was that lay in the background of his dreams, swimming like a silhouette against a bright doorway.

A reaper, a conduit perhaps, something which pulled in the waste of the world once it had served its purpose; a devourer of souls. Of course this book was almost two centuries old now, and Anders couldn't fool himself into thinking that what was written here was the truth, yet the words printed on the page seemed to hold an element of truth. Even if the author, Yallda Heman, had learned about such demons and spirits by second hand information or even legends, there was always an element of truth within such talk. Anders decided not to dwell too long on the whys, hows and wherefores and, instead, continued on into the book.

Detailed drawings adorned every page, some depicting faces he knew well, demons of desire, of pride, of sloth, while others detailed other aspects of demon culture, as it were. One which caught Anders' eye was labelled, simply: Communication. He had stopped not only out of interest but also because there were what could only be called scribbles in the right hand margin of the parchment. The small words bumped up and over the pinpricks made in the parchment in order to measure out lines and margins, causing the words to be challenging to read. Anders brought the candle closer before squinting at the words.

_Causeway – used: effective but leaves one vulnerable to attack. Barnaby will try tonight._

Anders stared at the words. There was something familiar about them. It was only as he scanned the page further that, in the top right hand corner, he found the last thing he would have expected and yet, on second thoughts, should have known would be there. The symbol of the Band of Three. He stared at it, looking closely to make sure his eyes did not deceive him. When he was sure that he was correct Anders quickly fished out his old, weather-beaten letters.

The symbol was definitely the same. So, he hadn't been the first one to find the book. He should have known better, considering one of the letters spoke of the Viscount allowing the Band of Three access to his private archives. Still, Anders couldn't help but be excited by it. If they had looked at this book then it must have been part of their research into contacting the Fade through the thin Veil. Anders read over the page meticulously, taking in Heman's archaic description of what he seemed to be calling, if the translation was correct, the 'causeway'.

 _A crude but effective means of communication between the Beyond and the Now in which a demon can wear away a patch of the barrier between realms, allowing it to contact not only the Touched_ (What Anders assumed was the term for 'mage' in Heman's time)  _but also everyday folk. A bridge of sorts between our separate worlds. This is a worrisome means of contact which can only be achieved by demons of a high order, powerful summoners, with a purposeful intent. The causeway takes immense power to maintain but appears to be the most successful means of communication between realms._

The 'causeway', as Heman called it, was known to Anders already, although in not quite the same parameters. It was how mages made forced entries into the Fade, and from experience Anders knew how much energy and power it cost to send someone's consciousness across the veil. Many mages and lots of lyrium. It seemed that it took the same amount of power for demons, if only the higher caste of demons could create a 'causeway' between realms. Still, it was interesting to learn that demons too used this same method. He continued to scan the pages of the book, turning the pages and hoping for more scribbled words. He didn't have to look far. A few pages later he found more, this time in a more blocky and yet elegant script.

_Success! Found a way to open the door! Rufus will be pleased, after all his research and tests. Not sure about Maelen. He seems to regret ever opening this book. But I have faith. We will go tonight and get into that chamber if it kills me._

The first thing that struck him was not the word 'success' as was perhaps what he thought would excite him, but instead the discovery of two names written in separate notes. Rufus and Barnaby. This Maelen, had they written the previous note? if so then Rufus and Barnaby were surely the same person. Anders wondered, his mind racing. Had he finally managed to put a name to the faceless author of the letters he held? The handwriting of the other two members of the Band of Three, found in the book, did not match that of the letters, so could that mean a man named Rufus Barnaby penned them? Anders licked his lips and took a breath, feeling like he was making more headway in his search than he had in a long time. He looked back to the page, pulling his codex of words closer, and began to translate. An hour later he felt satisfied that he knew what was written there.

_The Causeway appears to have a locking mechanism for the faded patches created in order to use the Causeway itself. A complex system of glyphs creates a code for these doorways, only accessible through use of the conduit. A small amount of the Beyond must be brought into this world and then sent, via the conduit, to the glyph or other material. This reaction is created which allows the glyph to react in a specific fashion. A glyph of opening will create a way through, while a glyph of destruction will create devastation; all dependant on potency of glyph. Do not need to be within touching distance. If series of glyphs is in order, one can create an 'extended conduit', allowing demons to access their glyphs from metres and even miles away._

A way through, Anders thought, his mind ticking over as he imagined the implications of such a power. Create devastation. Words floated over the expanse of time, a painful memory which seemed to connect with these words;  _it's as if you brought a piece of the Fade into this world!_  Karl's voice was still fresh in his mind when he recalled the memory, passionate and full of life; how he wanted to remember him. I wonder, Anders thought as he looked at the diagrams on the page, not entirely conclusive but at least a start.

_"Why did your father come here," Anders asked as he handed Tebrius some clean clothes; Rayzla had finally been persuaded to fetch them; he watched as the man ate the food he had brought, devouring the dumplings in two bites, "why travel all this way to perform a ritual he could have done anywhere?"_

_"Well...that's th-the point," Tebrius pounded on his chest, swallowing painfully as he put the clothes down on the floor and continued eating, "couldn't be done anywhere else. Had to be here. Don't you know anything about Kirkwall?"_

_"Not as much as you, it seems," Anders said with a raised eyebrow, "why don't you enlighten me?"_

_"Heh," Tebrius said, shaking his head, "such a polite way to put an order. You and my father would have gotten along famously."_

_"I highly doubt that," Anders said, his expression souring._

_"Well," Tebrius shrugged, "not many did admittedly. Anyway, all apprentices learn about Kirkwall in their history teachings. How the Imperium marched here, fought on Sundermount against the elves to try and take it back. Some would say they were desperate to get back what they had spent so long striving for. Old fools."_

_"Striving for what?" Anders asked, passing the man a canteen of water and watching him drink greedily, "What's so special about Kirkwall?"_

_"You must have felt it," Tebrius snorted, "the Veil isn't just thin here, in places it's basically non-existent. Patches worn right through after decades of blood sacrifice. Ways into the Beyond. Truthfully I don't think anyone really knows what they were striving for, not anymore, not even my father. But they did know what they could do with it."_

_Anders waited patiently as Tebrius bit into a piece of chicken hungrily, chewing the white meat, but he sat on tenterhooks, waiting for more. Tebrius seemed to notice and swallowed the meat, taking a moment to breathe before he continued._

_"The Black City," he said softly, as if somewhat scared to say its name, "somewhere the Magisters have been keen to find for long before I was born. Some Magisters think it is only a legend. Father didn't. He was obsessed with the place, obsessed with conversing with the Old Gods. Pitiable idiot that he was, who was I to tell him otherwise? Still, the thinness of the Veil and the layout of the streets would make it easy for any demon with enough ambition to rule this city in an instant."_

_"What?" Anders frowned, "What on earth do you mean by that? We've had demons here before and nothing that serious has ever happened."_

_"Huh," Tebrius scratched at his dirty face and looked a little surprised, "well, seems the old ways haven't only been lost to us humans then. Maybe demons forget too."_

_"You didn't answer my question," Anders said forcefully._

_"Eh?" Tebrius said, jerking out of his reverie; he looked at Anders sceptically for a moment, "are you sure you're a mage?" he asked, making Anders bristle, "Well, I just didn't think it would be that hard to see. Haven't you ever seen a map of Kirkwall from above?"_

The study was orderly and well organised, he could thank Hawke for that much; it didn't take long to find it. The map was old and brittle. He unfolded it carefully, revealing twisting streets and curved, black letters labelling the regions of the city; Lowtown, Darktown, Hightown, the Gallows, and four gates, corresponding. He lifted his fingers from the parchment before placing them back against the very spot in which he now sat, The Amell family estate. Tracing his fingers along the streets, Anders began to search.

I wonder indeed.

* * *

_Three days before the present_

It had been a bizarre day, filled with excitement and purpose. Anders had spent the afternoon out on the Wounded Coast, on an outcrop of rock by the sea, drawing runes into the sand in order to test the theory of the conduit. It was a strange feeling, to be able to understand a new form of magic, something he had never encountered before.

Why is this a forbidden art? He asked himself as he watched the runes glow faintly white as he placed his hand against the ground and pulled on his connection to the Fade. The energy reacted to the runes, set up as he had seen in the hastily scribbled diagram in the  _Fjandi_. Surely this would be useful in lots of situations, not just for demons...

The thought made him cringe and pull his hand back from the sand as if it were scalding. He looked to the flesh of his palm, peppered with beige crystals of sand, and allowed the sudden thought to sink in. If it was purely a form of communication used by demons, did that mean..? No, Anders tried to convince himself, the book doesn't know everything. A vision of Vengeance's amber eyes flashed into his mind. Anders dismissed it. A vision of the shades fleeing his presence in seeming terror. Anders brushed his hands together quickly and watched the sand fall in haphazard puffs of yellow and brown.

I'm not a demon, he said to himself again and again, I'm  _not_ a demon. The idea had been lurking in his mind like a cat lying in ambush, cold eyes watching him, waiting for a chance to strike at him when he was alone, weak. Anders wouldn't have it. I am not a demon, he thought, I know what is right and what is wrong. I do not want destruction for destruction's sake, I do not want to corrupt the hearts of humans for my own personal gain, I do not want...

I am not a demon. Anders hung his head looked at the runes by his feet, drawn into the wet sand leaving high, messy edges around the runnels. Yet I hate, he thought hesitantly, I hate and I hate and I  _hate_. Sometimes I feel my capacity for hate may be bigger than my capacity for love, for kindness, and it scares me. Even at the most damning points in my life I remember them oddly. When I brought Hawke back from beyond the Veil, I think I hated Justice for his inaction more than I feared for my chance of losing Hawke's love. What does that say about me? Anders listened to the soft lapping of water against the shore and closed his eyes.

When he opened them the world was unchanged. The sky was still grey and the sea mirrored its tone. The water still moved mechanically back and forth. Anders breathed in deeply before letting it out as a slow rush of air. Keep moving forwards, he thought as he looked back to the runes at his feet, stepping back as the water finally reached him and washed the soft runnels in the sand flat, wiping the slate clean.

_"Someone aught to take 'em down"_

He barely remembered the woman's name now, as she stood in the cave, but her nasal voice and her accusing eyes had stuck with him. Anders looked to his hands once more. Whatever has given me this power to use, whether it be Justice or Vengeance himself, it's time to put this into practice. He looked up as the sun emerged from behind a cloud, its harsh light glinting against the heads of the waves as they broke against the shore.

* * *

 

"It's simple and quiet and no one gets hurt," Anders said in a quiet voice, barely above a whisper.

"This seems an awfully big risk," Farah said, loudly enough that Rayzla shushed her; when she spoke again her voice was so quiet he could barely hear her, "just that we don't really know the new patrols. What if someone disturbs us?"

"Like I said, this is a simple, quick plan, we disable them and then we do as I said. And if we do get caught out then we do what we do best," Anders said with a hint of derision, "we run."

He wouldn't lie and say that it was purely a chance to test out the practical effects of his new skill. Mara's worlds had worked their way under his skin.  _Someone aught to take 'em down._  He felt like tracking the woman down and shouting  _'You don't bloody say_ ' in her face. Images of the heads upon the wall had been haunting him for days. Whenever he caught sight of them he felt irrationally scared, rationally angry and pitiably sad all at once. The thought was driving him to distraction, yet even when he wasn't thinking about them he felt guilty that he wasn't. I nearly forgot Karl's sacrifice once, Anders would tell himself, tried to hide myself from the awful truth of his death. That it was forced upon us, forced upon  _me_. In losing Justice I tried to reach for the idea of a life without a constant purpose and conviction behind my cause. A chance to run.

No. I won't. I  _can't_. This time it will be them who pay for what they have done to us. He heard the approaching sound of the templar patrol in the adjoining street. Anders signalled for the others to be quiet and get to their stations before he slipped into the alleyway they stood beside and stepped lightly down the dark passage. When he reached the other end he peered out into the lamp lit gloom and watched the small patrol of templars, four in all, round the corner and march strictly along the cobbled street, faceless helmets scanning the area lazily. Anders waited, watching their feet, anticipating the moment when...

The surge of power was intense. At the beach the runes had been small, merely carved out with his index finger. Now, here, he had painted the rune into the stone with lyrium, hoping to maximise the effect. It had seemed logical to him. In his practice as a mage, the larger the amount of lyrium, then the stronger the spell would be, the longer it would last and the more effective. Thus he had expected that using lyrium to trace out the glyph of restraint from the  _Fjandi_  would make it more powerful. Little had he known to what extent the effect of the rune he had painted would be. The sounds of intense screams and agony were all that could be heard and Anders' eyes widened in shock as the bright, white light of the rune faded into nothingness, leaving only a pile of bodies behind in the street, blood beginning to show beneath their armour.

"Maker! By the  _Maker_..." Farah's voice was hushed and yet grew louder as she surveyed the scene before her, her hood fallen back and her large eyes bugging out of her head.

"Was it supposed to do this?" Rayzla asked, her voice uncertain as Anders moved slowly out into the street, seeming fearful of the loud noise the templars were making, "I thought you said we just wanted to rough them up?"

"I don't...I don't know," Anders couldn't help but sound disgusted as he looked at the sight before him.

The spell had been one of restraint and paralysis. It had made sense to him, hold them still and restrain them to the ground. Then they could do what they wanted with them. Humiliation had been his main want, he wanted to humiliate Meredith, pull her down from that imaginary throne she had placed herself on. He wanted to show her that she and her templars were just as human as they were. That mages were not barbarians who used death and fear as a way to control the populace.

But now...now he had done  _this_. Legs and arms twisted at unnatural angles, difficult to tell where one set of armour started and the other began; blood and steel and screaming.

"Anders," Farah said, looking ill, "they're gonna wake someone."

"We have to shut them up!" Rayzla hissed, stepping forwards and reaching down to pull one of the helmets from the nearest head; she stepped back with an intake of breath at what she revealed. Short blonde hair and watery blue eyes. The woman was young, maybe only just into her twenties. Blood poured from her nose and down across her face, into her mouth. She looked around her in fear, choking out a desperate, " _help, please help_ ". Rayzla held onto the helmet in her hands and stared, "what do we do? Anders? What do we do?"

What have I done? Anders thought in desperation, I am not a demon. Would I leave her to die? I am not a demon!

"Why ask such a thing?" Anders said as he quickly knelt down beside the woman, her eyes following him blearily, "We have to help them."

"But she's seen us!" Farah said worriedly as Anders quickly began feeling for the templar's wounds, "Rayzla don't touch them!"

"Keep your voice down," Rayzla said, even as her lack of conviction was obvious from her voice; she removed the helmets of the other three in turn, the second just as bleary at the first, the third seemingly unconscious, but the fourth:

"Ahh!" he screamed as his helmet was removed, making Rayzla back away and look around her in worry. No one seemed to have come running just yet, but the area of the docks they were in was very quiet at this time and no guard patrol was due until much later. Still, the templar's yell was enough to make Farah run. Anders hissed out her name after her, watching as she fled in a flurry of fluttering robes. He turned back to the man once Farah was out of sight. Anders' eyes met his eyes, " _you_ ," was all the templar had to say.

"You  _know_  him?" Rayzla said hysterically, her panic obvious in her stare.

"No, no I..." Anders' mind raced as he tried to place the unknown face of the man before him, lying twisted on the ground; he heard the woman cough again, making him feel sick.

"I knew you, ahh!" the man screwed his eyes shut before opening them again, teeth gritted in pain and anger, "the Commander knew you were the one. You're the  _murderer_."

"What is he talking about?" Rayzla almost shouted, the helmet in her hands shaking.

"I don't know!" Anders shook his head and tried to hold the woman down as she convulsed, blood choking from her lips, "I don't even know him!"

"I know your face," the man seemed to laugh in pain, "I know your face, you monster. You'll be next, all of you," he stopped to pull in a hacking breath, eyes wild as he looked Anders straight in the face and said, "you'll be the next set of filth for the Eastern Gate, you and all your kind."

It wasn't rational. Anders wouldn't try and defend himself by saying that it was. He knew it wasn't rational because one minute he was wildly trying to think of a way out of this insane situation he had concocted, and the next he had taken his dagger from his belt and, with only a moment's hesitation, plunged it into the templar's neck. Anders watched in fearful fury as the man before him gurgled and spat, his tongue lolling out of his mouth, his eyes fluttering, as he died. Oddly, it wasn't Rayzla who pulled him back from the precipice of his frenzy. Instead it was the soft whimper of the woman he had been, seconds before, trying to work out how he would heal. He looked up at Rayzla, her eyes shining with tears and panic, and pushed her out of the way. She stumbled back, still holding the helmet, and Anders could feel her eyes watching him as he finished the others before the realisation of what he was doing caught up with him. By the time he reached the young woman his anger had ebbed to almost nothing, the screaming conviction he had held onto when the templar had spoken of his dead friends, wrongly executed,  _killed_...just as he was now doing.

"I'm so sorry," he couldn't help but say as he put the woman out of her misery. Anders closed his eyes, unwilling to witness her passing. The silence that followed seemed monstrous, even more so than the screams of pain and groans of agony that had filled the air what seemed like only moments before. The silence only spoke of one thing, the thing which Anders wasn't willing to accept.

You are the demon, it whispered with a smile. You are the bringer of destruction. Everything you do ends in death.

"Anders," eventually, after what seemed like hours, he felt a hand upon his shoulder. Anders looked up lethargically to find Rayzla standing there, her face pale, "we have to go. We have to go, now."

"I know," Anders said, his voice soft as he looked down at the slowly widening pool of blood by his knees. He stood, looking down at the mangled bodies before him and feeling nothing but emptiness. I could have saved them, he thought listlessly, but I would have doomed us. He reached down and picked up the helmets, handing one to Rayzla. The tall woman took it with a wretchedness born of the violent display. She looked to him, resigned, and Anders said the only thing he could, "let's finish this. For the others."

"For the others," Rayzla said softly.

They buried the heads beyond the gate, out in the darkness of the wilder land beyond Kirkwall. They could still see the lights of the city, fading into the oncoming dawn, but it was far enough away for Anders to feel it was at least moderately significant. They were free, free of that awful place, that putrid cesspit that only bred death and misery. Anders closed his hands into fists and felt as if he wanted to do nothing but crumble to the ground and join them. What am I? He asked himself, What have I made of myself?

"I sort of knew," Rayzla said, rubbing her hands together as she looked down at the disturbed earth where the heads lay buried, "that it would come to this at some point. I mean, I know we didn't mean to," she stopped as Anders opened his mouth, but the mage finally closed it again futilely; there was nothing he could say, "it seems more like fate than anything else. We're meant to be at odds. We can't live together and they won't let us live apart. I suppose war is...inevitable."

They stood together in the lightening dark, sharing each other's silence, sharing each other's understanding, sharing each other's dire sense of fate.


	14. Mouth (part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes, so this has been a long time in the making! Sorry to anyone who has been waiting for more of this story (Especially you Elena!) but this chapter ended up being a lot trickier than expected, and I've had a lot of stuff going on in my life what with moving to my parents and going through surgery, and so on and so forth. So, yes, well here it is finally. I ended up cutting down the size a little and moving the second half of this chapter into the next chapter as there was no way to make it gel together. Hopefully this will work better!

“We find nothing easier than being wise, patient, superior. We drip with the oil of forbearance and sympathy, we are absurdly just, we forgive everything...for that very reason we ought to cultivate a little emotional vice, from time to time. It may be hard for us; and among ourselves we may perhaps laugh at the appearance we thus present. But what of that! We no longer have any other mode of self-overcoming available to us: this is our asceticism, our penance.”

Friedrich Nietzsche

 

He heard the boots walk past, saw the light from under cell door momentarily black out, and Anders began to hum, the words following quickly and quietly.

“ _There was a chanter, oh so bold, walked a’hundred miles, it has been told..._ ”

There was a banging from one of the other cells, a constant banging that had broken the silence since his arrival. _Thud, clang, thud, clang_. Anders tried not to let it put him off his rhythm. Every now and then it would stop and there would be silence, but for the distant sound of marching metal feet and the hacking cough of someone somewhere. Then, like clockwork, _thud, clang, clang, thud, clang_. Anders closed his eyes and tried to ignore it, continuing his song. It was difficult enough to maintain his composure as it was without something so incessant driving him mad.

He opened his eyes again almost as soon as he had closed them. His song skipped a beat or two, forcing him to scrabble for where he had been in the chorus. The darkness behind his eyelids had only heightened his panic. Anders swallowed and tried not to let the memories pull him under. He flicked his eyes around the dim, unremarkable, grey walled cell. It was smaller than his cell in the Circle had been; no lone window high on the back wall, no hole in the door for light to filter through, no small bed to sit upon. Bizarrely, even though the differences should have made the experience all the worse, they at least allowed him to separate his reality from the nightmares in his head. He continued to sing to himself under his breath, keeping the beats, keeping the time.

Further than that, he hadn’t made much headway. The templars who had escorted him down the long stairs, along the featureless, cold corridors and then straight into this small cell, had not talked or allowed him time to keep his bearings. They had barely taken the time to search him, stripping him of his dagger, his belt and its pouches and even his soft leather jacket. That had been what he missed the most, partly because it was cold without it, sitting on the chill stone floor, but mainly because it had been Hawke’s. It had been a comforting thing to wear, the man’s scent still clinging to the heavy material; a link to the outside world. Without it Anders felt himself curling up whenever he realised all he could smell was a mix of hot metal, chill air and the faint unease of blood and rot.

“ _The maid did say, ‘I’ve never behaved’, the Chanter replied, ‘All can be saved’..._ ”

The song ended. He took a breath and, as the banging started up again, so did Anders begin his song once more. It was another round before he heard the lone guardsman, he presumed from the cadence and timbre of the footfalls, walked past his door again. So, it’s as long as two rounds of ‘The Merry Chanter’ for the guard to do his route. Anders stood up, stretching out his limbs, and took a breath. That’s not long, he thought, but perhaps just long enough. The air felt heavy here, oppressive, just as he had expected it would. A shimmering atmosphere, it tingled to the touch. The templars always were good at suppressing magic, Anders thought wryly as he ran his fingers against the wall to his left.

He had heard nothing from the cell beside him, hopefully meaning it was empty. The banging had also stopped for a few moments as he searched for a loose stone, or even semi-loose. Nothing. The cell was as good as the day it was built, it seemed. Anders sighed in annoyance. He hadn’t wanted to play his ace so quickly but, if he was to have any chance to find this man, it would have to be now.

The small piece of sharp metal he had jammed into the sole of his boot was sufficient to pierce the skin on his index finger, allowing the dark, almost black blood to well up against his pale flesh. Anders closed his eyes and allowed himself to recall the glyph, opening his eyes and quickly sketching it onto the back right hand corner wall. His magic may have been dampened, hampered by the brand on his left hand and the heavy air around him, but he hoped the Fade essence, no matter how small, would be enough.

* * *

 

_Two days before the present_

He had been in the library, because Hawke rarely came there during the day and, at that point in time, Anders didn’t want to see anyone. It was still early, he thought as he picked through the books on the shelves and didn’t consider reading any of them. Fingers played over spines, even as they remembered digging through the hard earth. He stopped, licking his lips and taking a breath.

He hadn’t looked at their faces. It wasn’t out of reverence, although it should have been. He simply hadn’t wanted to remember them as gruesome objects, eyes staring blankly, skin taught and discoloured, necks open and dull brown with withered blood. To him Sabine would always be the kind eyed woman who had believed in him no matter what the consequence, her smile soft and tinged with a sadness she didn’t even seem aware of anymore. She was the worrier, the mother, the one who kept them in check.

Anders swallowed and walked to the nearest seat, sitting down slowly. At first he didn’t even react to the front door opening and the sound of hurried footsteps. It was only as the sound of weeping became apparent that he stood, looking in worry to the door.

Stepping out of the library, Anders found himself faced with grief. Her eyes streamed, creased nearly closed, and her face was pulled into a grimace as she tried to hold her tears back, dropping her cloth bag to the floor.

“Oranna,” he said worriedly, walking forwards to take the girl into his arms; she took the solace gladly, burying herself in his chest, “what’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

“There’s been more,” she sobbed out, “I was...I-I was down at the Lowtown market, cause Henry has his good eggs and butter out early and I-I didn’t want to miss them. But everyone was talking about it and,” Anders kept his eyes on the unlit fireplace, a feeling of dread coming over him, “I shouldn’t have looked but I did. I shouldn’t have looked at it! Why can’t it just _stop_?”

“What in Thedas is going...” Anders heard Hawke’s voice but didn’t turn, keeping stock still while Oranna continued to weep, “Oranna! What happened?”

“She used to do the same,” Oranna continued as if no one had spoken, “the Magister, Mistress Hadriana, she used to put them on spikes, like animals! To keep her enemies away. I hated it, it scared me so much! I used to lie awake and pray that I’d make her happy. Why does it have to happen here? I can’t stand it...”

He felt the hand on his shoulder and new that things were close to ending. Or beginning. He didn’t know which way to look at it. Hawke walked around to his side, eyes worried but hard, as if expecting the worst. He placed a hand on Oranna’s back and the elf lifted her head slowly, looking up at him with eyes stained red. She sniffed and shook her head.

“Come on, let’s get you something hot to drink,” Hawke said with a smile, “and you can tell me what happened. Alright?”

“...I don’t mean to be a bother,” she said, her tears returning.

“You’re not a bother,” Hawke admonished, throwing a concerned look at Anders out of the corner of his eye as he prised Oranna away from him; the mage hadn’t moved or spoken, simply kept staring at the fireplace. He watched out the corner of his eye as Hawke led Oranna to the kitchen, holding her tightly in case she fell.

The room fell silent when the door closed. Anders looked down at the floor and found the bag, a wet spot forming at its corner. He reached down and picked it up, opening it to find three large pats of butter wrapped in parchment and a dozen eggs in a fluff of hay, three of which were broken, the yellow yolks dribbling out of the cracked shells. Reaching in carefully he pulled out the burst eggs, putting them into a small, empty bowl on Bodahn’s desk.

All but one. He stared at its fragile nature, quivering with every movement. His fingers simply holding it seemed too much pressure for it to bear. He could have put it down, he wanted to put it down, but as the door to the kitchen re-opened, Anders felt himself crushing it. The slithering fluid trailed across his hand, dripping to the floor. He closed his eyes and shook his hand violently.

“Some of the eggs were broken,” he said quickly as Hawke approached.

No reply. Anders didn’t know what else to say. The man was quiet, so quiet. He’s always quiet, Anders tried to reassure himself. Yet, he knew what he feared, the one thing he was scared of losing, the one thing he couldn’t fully control. He felt Hawke’s hand on his chin, turning his head slowly. He would never know if Hawke knew by Anders’ eyes or his lack of response but he knew. Somehow he knew.

“You’re not going to ask me,” Hawke said, most certainly not a question, “are you.”

Anders frowned, not fully understanding at first. It should have been easy to understand but perhaps he didn’t want to. He kept still, feeling his heart beat quicken.

“Someone took down the heads at the Eastern Gate,” Hawke explained without prompting, retracting his hand and crossing his arms loosely, “but they left something behind.”

“Something?” Anders asked.

“Helmets,” Hawke said, “templar helmets. I’m guessing that the next news to come through that door will be of four bodies found without them. Don’t you think?” Hawke asked.

Hawke didn’t wait for an answer. Anders watched as he walked, not back into the mansion as he had expected, but instead headed straight for the front door. The door closed quietly behind Hawke as he left. The room fell still once more. Anders stared at the closed door, then down at the floor, the cracked shell and shining egg upon the floor. It stared back. Suddenly, everything felt rather cold.

He turned quietly, walking across the stone floor and out into the garden. The morning dew still hung on the petals of the early spring flowers, white and blue trumpets, and the thick and lush leaves of the evergreens. He stared at it. It stared back.

So quick, it had always been so very quick. Good things never lasted long, that was what Anders knew. Happiness, safety, warmth, a full belly, a comfortable bed, a home. Yet you convince yourself they will be, he thought derisively as his fingers tightened to fists, you tell yourself you can have them. Fool, such a _fool_. Justice knew, Justice _told you_...

Only there was no Justice, not anymore. Just another loss, another thing he could not have. _Friends_. A mage was not allowed friends. Friends could only use you, could only hurt you when they betrayed, when they turned to demons, when they turned to the templars and told them what you were planning, when they finally realised what you were capable of and decided you weren’t worth the risk.

Hawke. Anders frowned, blinking rapidly. He would never let him go, but he could not keep him either. One day, he thought, they would only be waiting for one day when everything would finally fall apart. Until then it would be simply rotting together while they waited for the rope to snap. Anders bit back on a welling of grief which, when ignored, only turned to resentment, frustration, _anger_.

I don’t belong here.

I never belonged here.

Struggling for a life I couldn’t have.

Justice was right. I can’t have this. I can’t have them both. I can’t wage my war and then come home afterwards and play at contentment. The thought seemed to take form in a way it hadn’t before. He could feel his heart beating in his chest, double time. He’d regretted before, _dragging Hawke into his world_ , he’d wished before, _that he could have a love such as this_ , _a happy life_ ; but not this. This time he not only regretted what he had done to Hawke, he regretted his own actions. He regretted taking the lives of the four templars, even as he did not regret giving Meredith her just rewards. _Can’t have both, can’t have both_ , it  taunted again and again.

He took a deep breath but it made no difference. This was different somehow. He uncurled his fingers but soon they twisted back into fists. This was _him_. He opened his mouth but no sound came out. There was no Justice, there was no Vengeance. The air clouded before his eyes. He was laid bare before the eyes of those he loved and Anders could only imagine what they saw. You are your own man, and now you will be judged accordingly. He looked up at the garden and couldn’t stand the homely beauty it showed to him.

The flowers went first, crushed inside his fists as he grabbed them in handfuls, ripping their roots from the soft soil. Dirt spilled in fountains, falling against his face and hands. Then the white and green hosta, whose purple flowers he loved to see bloom every year; the leaves tore like parchment between his bitter fingers, falling to the ground in pieces. The herbs perfumed the air as they were rent; the bulbs flew across the stone courtyard, bumping as they fled.

With every wrench and snap of stems, with the stink of sap heady on the air, he tried to forget ever watching this garden grow, ever planting the herbs, ever breathing the soft smells in the summer evenings. He did not grit his teeth in anger. He did not scream out loud. Instead, as Anders stared at the pine tree in the central plot, tall and straight and surrounded by fallen leaves and petals, his hands black with dirt, he knew his face was still frozen into the haunted facade he had assumed as soon as he had heard Oranna speak.

He knew that he blamed himself just as harshly as Hawke did.

He could feel the spell lick around his fingers before he even truly realised he had called upon it.

He stood amidst the broken garden and watched the tree burn.

* * *

 

It would have been too much to hope that no one would have seen him. He wasn’t sure how much later it was, perhaps a few hours, perhaps more, maybe even less, that he heard the door open. The lack of reaction spoke volumes for what they must have seen happen if this did not shock them.

Varric found him sat on the small, decorative stone plinth which Anders had sometimes taken to of an evening, with a book, when the weather was warm. Now, it seemed the only thing not sullied by his bout of madness.

“No,” Anders said, pre-empting the dwarf as he looked up at Varric over his shoulder, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

He looked away, even as Varric cleared his throat, whether from politeness or the abrasive smell of charred wood, he wasn’t sure.

“Thought not,” Varric said with his usual lack of gravity, walking past Anders’ steady gaze to sit down on the bench to his right.

They sat in silence; a comfortable silence at least, as much as it could be so. After a short time, in which the wind picked up and he realised he was getting cold, Anders decided that he may as well do one of the things Hawke did best. Pretend nothing was wrong at all.

“Actually, I was hoping to see you,” Anders said, sitting up and looking to Varric, noting the man’s slight surprise that he had spoken, “I have a favour to ask.”

“I’m not cleaning all this up,” Varric said facetiously, “if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“No,” Anders smiled in resigned amusement, “just information.”

“Well,” Varric seemed to brighten; now that they were on familiar ground the dwarf appeared willing to play into Anders’ charade, “that is my specialty, after all. What exactly is it you’re after, blondie?”

“I’m looking for a man,” he said, “someone that I’m not even sure is still alive.”

“Got a name?” Varric asked, unperturbed as always.

“Rufus Barnaby,” Anders said, looking up at the sky; he could feel rain on the air, “if he’s still alive he should be in his seventies if not older. I think...”

“Wait a minute,” Varric’s odd tone drew Anders’ eye; he looked at the dwarf curiously as Varric frowned thoughtfully to himself, staring at the floor, “Rufus Barnaby, Barnaby...that rings some bells. I’ve heard that name before.”

“Really?” Anders asked, unable to mask his interest, “Where from?”

“I really can’t say,” Varric sighed, looking irritated with himself, “something Jake Gall said to me, I think. He’s an aide to the Viscount, or was anyway. Damn, I really can’t bring it to mind, _but_ give me a couple of hours and I can get you that answer.”

“Well, aren’t I the important customer,” Anders smiled again, trying to make it as genuine as possible.

Varric hopped down from the bench, brushing the ash from his duster and wiping his hands together. It was rare to see Varric so serious, so much so that Anders felt like telling him to stop before he even opened his mouth. Instead, he let him talk.

“Don’t take it too much to heart, blondie,” Varric said as he walked past, “but right now you look like you could use all the help you can get. Oh and,” Anders looked over his shoulder once more to find Varric watching him, gesturing to the ravaged garden, “I’d think about coming up with some sort of cover for this, if I were you. Escaped, rabid mabari searching for his favourite bone perhaps?”

“Lost dragonling with a taste for marjoram?” Anders suggested with a half-hearted smile.

“There you go,” Varric said, returning the smile knowingly, “I knew you were in there somewhere. I’ll be back before you know it.”

Do I look that awful? Anders wondered, looking back to the ruined greenery at his feet. He sighed, shaking his head. At least I’m obviously just as transparent as I feel. No wonder Hawke saw right through me, he thought as he stood, beginning the long process of picking up the dead and scattered plants, laying them in the planters like precious corpses. I obviously have no deception left.

“I hope that’s not true,” Anders said to himself with a healthy amount of anxiety, “or Meredith will have a very simple interrogation presented to her on a silver platter.”

* * *

 

_One day before the present_

Merrill wasn’t overtly suspicious, but then she just seemed happy to see him. Things had been so fraught lately that he’d had little time or opportunity to venture to the Alienage. Merrill had swamped him in a hug when she opened her door, her surprise obvious on her face, and pulled him inside. They had talked longer than he had meant to, mainly because he couldn’t get a word in edgewise. He sat and watched her with a vague smile on his face. It had been a long time since he had seen her so happy and cheerful. He suspected she was putting it on for his visit, considering he knew he looked as cheery as the First Enchanter.

“I’m sorry Merrill, but I’m a little strapped for time today,” Anders said when the elf had sprung up to make tea, all aflutter when she realised she hadn’t even offered her guest a drink, “I really have to go.”

“Oh,” she had said, tea pot in hand, “oh, alright. Sorry, once I get gabbing I guess there’s no stopping me!”

“No, I’d love to stay longer, really,” Anders said genuinely, “but I have something important to do tonight and I don’t have much time to do it in. Actually, I just came here to ask a favour.”

“Of course, anything,” Merrill said, putting the teapot down and accepting the small, plumfy piece of material Anders handed her, “what’s this?”

“It’s just...something precious,” Anders said, letting go of the small pillow and watching it as if handing it over was to be an ill omen, “I’m going to be away for a few days, hopefully not long. I just wanted to make sure it was safe so I thought I’d ask you to hold onto it for a while.”

“Hold onto it for a while,” Merrill repeated with a small frown, one that matched her smile, “well, I don’t know why you’d ask but alright. I’ll make sure to keep it somewhere safe,” she said, busying herself with looking at the pillow brightly, “for when you get back.”

Right, Anders returned her smile grimly, for when I get back.

The others had been more difficult to deal with simply because he hadn’t hidden his plan from them. He had only been able to find Rayzla, William and Lirene, at whose shop they had congregated after sundown. No sign of Farah, not since he had seen her before the incident. Lirene told him that he had heard the woman was hiding out in Darktown. At least I know she’s safe, Anders had thought derisively.

“You...you can’t be serious,” Rayzla looked at him, her face split into half smile, half incredulousness.

“That’s suicide, Anders,” William hissed, taking hold of his arm and looking at him worriedly, “and for what? Are you even sure that it’s true?”

“I have a reliable source,” Anders said, nodding at the younger man, “Varric’s information is always dependable, and this is the only chance I’ll get.”

_“I knew I’d heard that name before,” Varric said, grinning when he returned to the mansion and sought out Anders in the living room, “Rufus Barnaby. He was a notable guy, back in the day. Friends with the Viscount’s father, until he got involved in something he wasn’t supposed to. Jake said the rumour was it was blood magic, a couple of people dead, but that’s just a rumour. Got locked up for it regardless. If the register reads right, and Jake keeps good books, he’s still in the Gallows to this day. Down in the under-cells. Where they keep those they don’t intend to let back out.”_

“My only chance is to use Meredith’s own strategies against her,” Anders said, stepping out into the empty room which adjoined to Lirene’s shop; it was odd to see it so still, so quiet, when it was normally bustling with people, “she wants me for questioning, well that’s what she says anyway. We all know that’s only a portion of the truth. It’ll only make her suspicious if I resist, and more suspicious if I’m happily willing; so I use this chance to my advantage. This man, Rufus Barnaby, if he is still alive he might have information that we can use, about Kirkwall. If he dies, then it dies with him.”

“But there must be another way!” Lirene argued in her stern tone, “Some way into the Gallows.”

“Don’t you think that if there was a way into the Gallows we would have found it by now?” William argued, his young face filled with consternation, “Anders, it’s not worth it. What if he isn’t even there? What if he doesn’t remember? What could be so important that you would risk this much?”

He hadn’t answered, merely allowed them to argue amongst themselves. He hadn’t the time to explain, only the consideration to tell them of his plan so that the resistance did not panic on hearing of his incarceration. His last stop was, ironically, the most difficult.

“I’d inquire as to why you’re asking this of me,” Fenris said with a soft frown, “but I feel I wouldn’t get much of an answer.”

“Hawke’s just under a lot of stress right now,” Anders shrugged, avoiding the elf’s suspicion, “and I want to make sure he doesn’t work himself up too much. The more eyes on him the better.”

“Says the man who recently burned his garden into ashes,” Fenris said with a raised brow, “if Varric is to be believed.”

“Been talking about me, have we?” Anders asked, deadpan.

“Actually,” Fenris said as he stood from the plush bed where he had been seated, “Varric recently asked of me what you are asking now, only you were to be the one I kept my eye on. Apparently I’m becoming everyone’s watcher these days.”

The city itself may have still been recovering from the Magister’s rampage, with the Hanged Man still in pieces and blood still staining the streets, but Fenris’s mansion had never looked better. In his long absence from Kirkwall on his journey to the Anderfells, the workmen Hawke had hired did not tire. The main hall was completely refurbished, except for the floorboards which still needed varnished. The walls were painted a bright cerulean, like the sky on a summer’s day, the banisters had been stripped and re-varnished, the chandelier had been restored to its former beauty, shining and bright, and even the ceiling had been cleaned and painted; white for the moulded decorations and the same cerulean for the open spaces.

The paintings, re-framed, hung elegantly against the walls and seemed the happier for it.  Even the master bedroom had been finished. The walls were a deep cream, lined with a heady wine red on the dado rail, which Anders thought was only appropriate. The bed had been replaced entirely with a new four-poster, hung in the same red with gold trim and heavy tassels on the curtains. The wood fittings had been varnished as well as the door, table and chairs, the fireplace had been scrubbed to within an inch of its life, and the armchair and couch were gone in place of a matching set; cream upholstery with redwood. It wasn’t just liveable, unlike its previous incarnation, it was positively luxurious.

Of course Fenris didn’t seem to truly care for it, other than he had thanked Hawke of course. The elf was nothing if he wasn’t courteous. Anders was just glad he could sit down without a plume of dust arising around him. Of course Hawke had recently suspended work in order to allow the workmen to help in repairing the city. The fact that he didn’t have to pay for the very expensive restorations for a while was an added bonus.

“Well, thanks for the concern,” Anders said, “but I’m fine.”

“Hmm,” Fenris shook his head, “you always were one for painting over cracks.”

“You’re one to talk,” Anders retorted.

“Touché,” Fenris said; the elf walked over to stand by the fire, reaching out towards it to feel its warmth, “anyway, you don’t have to ask me to look out for Hawke. We all do, you know that.”

“Yes, I know,” Anders said, nodding, “I know.”

Unlike with Varric, the silence between them grew awkward. Anders knew why, he just didn’t want to have to ask. Fenris was a friend, yes, but a tenuously kept one at best. It should be such a simple question, he berated himself, just spit it out for Maker’s sake.

“So,” he started, clearing his throat, “how are you holding up?”

“No need to tiptoe around me like I'm a wounded dog,” Fenris said with little humour, folding his arms as he leaned against the fireplace, “I am as well as is to be expected.”

“Well, aren’t I glad I asked?” Anders responded facetiously, “Now I understand _completely_.”

“And you’re usually so polite,” Fenris drawled, raising an eye brow, “I am alive and I am free. I do not think it prudent to ask for more than that.”

“The outcome wasn’t my main concern,” Anders said, gesturing wide with an open palm, “you know better than that.”

“I don’t know what you want to hear,” Fenris spat out, his thin temper cracking; Anders wouldn’t say it, but the elf’s fractiousness was telling enough.

“Just the truth,” he said, shaking his head.

“The truth, don’t make me laugh,” the sudden viciousness made even Anders frown; Fenris pushed away from the fireplace and stalked across the room, “you don’t want to hear about it and _I_ don’t want to talk about it, that’s enough.”

“No, not enough. If you think that I’m just going to let you sit up here and drown your sorrows, then think again.”

“Don’t presume to second guess my actions,” Fenris’s eyes narrowed, turning on his heel to point aggressively.

“I bloody well will,” Anders said, picking up an empty bottle, hidden somewhat beneath the coffee table; Fenris glared at him, “because I know what you’re like..!”

“Know me! You don’t _know me_!” Fenris interrupted, shouting, advancing on Anders with every word, gestures erratic, “Everyone assumes, always _assumes_! They look at me and all they can see is a dangerous, unstable weapon to be controlled, to be feared. A drunkard who cannot attest to his own heart because he isn’t sure he truly has one to attest to! A useful _vishante kaffar_ which they can discard at a moment’s notice when..!”

The end came only when Fenris was close enough to have one clawed gauntlet curled to a muted fist directly before Anders’ face. The mage had not moved an inch, simply watched, slightly wide eyed, as the words had poured forth. Bitter, angry and hateful were all too tame to describe the vitriol. The elf seemed as painfully livid as he had the day he killed Hadriana. Anders watched as Fenris stared at his own fist, slowly retracting it. The scowl his face had smoothed away, twisting to a blank visage and haunted eyes. Anders watched as Fenris turned and walked strictly to the lone armchair by the fire, sitting down with tight control.

“I...I apologise,” he said softly, “I did not mean those words for you.”

“No,” Anders didn't stay quiet because he felt it would be foolish to, instead putting down the bottle he’d been holding, “Then who?”

A clasping of hands, then a licking of lips. Fenris looked as if he would have loved nothing more than to tell him to leave. In the end Anders wasn’t even sure why the elf did not simply do so. Instead, he opened his mouth and spoke.

“I suppose...” the word faded to nothing, forcing Fenris to clear his throat, “...for me. I think that I meant them for myself. I...have for a long time.”

Anders wished he had something he could say. This time he did kept quiet and did the one thing he thought Fenris might appreciate more; he listened.

“I should be in mourning, should I not?” Fenris began, voice bereft of feeling, “That is the way of things after losing one’s kin, yes? In Tevinter the ceremony observes a strict law; only pale grey to be worn, the head always covered, no food but bread and water for the four sacred days before the body is burned. _In Tivis_ , they call it. The Magisters always put on a show of their mourning, flashing it through the streets, all wide eyed and long faced. Some even force their Altus children to do the same, to further their steps on the ladder towards entering the Magisterium,” the dripping dislike could be heard in Fenris’s voice, “a show. That’s all it was, all it still is. A show. I don’t think I even know what is right anymore, all I knew...”

He paused, his eyes staring straight ahead, almost unseeing.

“All I know is what Danarius taught to me. All I know. A master is to be obeyed and a slave is to follow. The other Magisters are not to be trusted, for they would have taken me for their own at a moment’s opportunity. Weakness is not to be tolerated or observed, for weakness leads to apathy and laziness. I must not complain, for this is my role in life, and I should be thankful I am not a beggar on the street, hungry and without a roof over my head or food in my stomach. That anger...anger is something to be harnessed and used in protection of my master. There is no room for happiness or contentment or love. Those are the feelings which flow in the circuits of others.

“I like to rail against them, his _rules,_ only now...now I fear that it may be true. It didn’t effect me as much I would have liked, killing her, no matter how much I did not mean to do so. And I know why, I _know_. I was cut by losing her as I would be cut by losing something I had been searching for, not someone I should have loved. The memories she represented, not the woman she was.

“My sister. When I saw her face I thought I saw something; it was only a flash. I could smell pine nuts and I could hear a woman singing from through an open window. Varania kneeling on the ground, throwing a ball towards me. She was smiling. A memory, nothing more than a memory. But...” he sighed, staring at his upraised palms, “it was _this_. I should have been happy, shouldn’t I? To have found her, to have _remembered_. Instead it was this anger, hatred. All it became was realising that this is something I’ll never escape.

“After I killed Danarius all I could think was how swift and painless it must have been. How much more he deserved, how much longer I could have drawn it out, the things I could have done to him. Eleven days,” a derisive smirk painted Fenris’s lips, making Anders shiver, “that was the most I think I could have gone before the urge to end him would have won out. Can you believe I’ve counted? Calculated, how long it would take for me to kill a dead man? He’s _gone_ , everything I always wanted is mine, my freedom, my _life_ returned to me, and all I can think about is _him_.

“I’m not...I’m not free. It is such a hideous thing to think that I can’t stand it. My sister, my stupid, narrow minded, _Laetan_ of a sister. Part of me wanted her dead. Part of me...still does. And the rest of me can’t believe that _part_ even exists. That I could think that way. I do not think I will ever be free of it,” his face fell and Fenris slumped back into the chair, eyes cast to the fire, “he is dead by my own hand and yet here I sit, feeling that in everything I do he is there, watching over my shoulder. Whispering into my ear. I hoped that there was a kernel, a grain of myself deep down inside, of what I used to be. An essence of myself beyond the slave that I was. It was why I ran, it was why I deemed myself worthy of running. Now I am not sure anymore.”

He looked to Anders, lifting on hand tiredly before dropping it back to the arm of the chair.

“I’m frightened that all I am now is everything he made me to be,” he said, “and there will be no escape from that. Not even if I run till the end of my days.”

It shouldn’t have made him shiver, that’s what Anders told himself, but it did. The words struck true and he swallowed. The same, he thought, it is the same, is it not? Anders could rail about how he had changed Justice, corrupted him, and yet he did not like to dwell on just how much the spirit had also changed him. Even now he is gone, Anders thought, it is true that I feel him, always there in the back of my mind. It is true I ask myself what he would have done in my place, compare myself to him, wish I could have him back when I find myself lacking.

Can we ever be free of it? he asked himself as he looked to Fenris, defeated and dejected, Can we ever be ourselves again?

“Come on,” Anders said suddenly, standing.

“I do not wish for you to...” Fenris began, annoyed.

“Don’t argue with me, just come with me, alright?” Anders walked to the armchair and looked down at the elf candidly, face open, “I need to show you something.”

He had expected further resistance. When he did not find it, Anders was simply glad. Perhaps there was a kernel of hope after all, a grain of themselves left with which to cling to. Fenris did not talk as Anders led him down the gloomy steps as the sun set, through the courtyards with their flagging foliage, crisp in the last grasp of winter. He was glad when Fenris did not object when he unlocked Hawke’s door and let them both inside; mainly because Anders himself was forcing himself to step beyond the threshold as well as the elf. The sound of voices could be heard from within.

“Oh well that’s just unfair,” Varric’s voice, sounding wryly put out, “you don’t know the rules of etiquette around here, do you Choir-boy?”

“We have rules of etiquette?” Hawke’s voice, sounding distinctly amused and partly inebriated.

“Well, I do,” Varric replied, “I’m not so sure about everyone else.”

“And these rules require that you always win?” Anders sighed, recognising Sebastian’s grating tone.

“They require underhand tactics,” Callum’s deep voice; as he and Fenris entered the lobby they found the crowd arranged around the low table by the fire, Varric, Merrill and Callum on one side, facing them, and Hawke, Sebastian and Isabella on the other, facing away, “You play too straight, Starkhaven. Try a little deception,” Callum was the first to notice them, smiling softly to Anders, “it won’t make you burst into flame.”

Hawke turned, as did the others on his side. Anders avoided the man’s stare and took a breath.

“Oh, well look who’s been lured out of his cave,” Isabella spoke up with a lascivious smile, “the white haired bat. I hope you brought your own wine because we’ve been reduced to _tea_.”

“I wasn’t stocked for guests,” Hawke sighed, obviously having had to trot out this argument many times.

“Well, Rivaini, it could also have had something to do with your glass never being empty until the stores ran dry,” Varric quipped, ignoring Isabella’s feigned insult; the dwarf looked to them both, standing apart from the group, and smiled uncharacteristically softly, “so, you two looking for a game or are you just planning on observing us like rats for the rest of the evening?”

“We could use some fresh blood,” Callum said, sighing, “been getting murdered all night.”

“My fault,” Merrill spoke up, giggling, “can’t play to save myself.”

“Then we take Fenris,” Isabella said, quickly making room by herself on the couch, “I’m not letting you have all that raw talent for yourselves.”

Anders looked to Fenris. The elf returned his gaze. After a few moments, in which Anders worried that the elf would simply turn and leave, Fenris nodded. Barely there, barely an acknowledgement, but still and acknowledgement nonetheless. Anders would take it. Fenris walked to the couch and sat down without another word. Anders would have smiled if he had felt in any way inclined. Instead he sat down next to Callum, glad for the pleasant glow the man was exuding, and watched Varric deal out the cards with a practiced hand.

* * *

 

“So, did you plan on coming back or was this all part of the favour?”

Standing in his bedroom, rummaging through one of the top drawers in the dresser for something suitably warm to wear to bed, Anders wished it was not necessary to have this conversation. He used his distraction as an excuse to stay quiet a few minutes longer. Eventually he found a long woolen shirt and pulled it free.

Hawke stood by the fire, poking at the dying red embers of wood. Anders watched him wearily, unsure how to answer. The truth seemed far too risky and, if he was to take his own advice, too hypocritical. He decided to focus on another’s.

“I thought if he stayed in that mansion alone for another second he’d consider topping himself,” Anders said with a raised brow, “so I brought him here. Seemed only right.”

“That,” Hawke said shaking his head and sighing as he stood, “wasn’t an answer.”

“I know,” Anders said.

No biting quip was forthcoming. Hawke moved from foot to foot, as if debating something with himself, before walking forwards slowly until he stood by the bed, leaning against one of the tall, carved, wooden posts draped in the canopy above. His green eyes looked black in the gloom, watching him closely.

“Funny that,” he said, sounding more wary than irate, “and here I was thinking the charred pine tree in the garden was the only answer I was going to get. Seems I was right after all.”

“That was...” Anders instantly began to deny; no, he stopped himself. He folded the shirt in his hands, keeping the cold at bay, “that wasn’t an answer to anything. It was just...” _pure, blind, panicked hatred_ , “...just a mistake.”

Even in the half-dark Anders saw Hawke frown. Anders took the few steps to the bed and sat down upon the edge. Hawke stayed standing but his gaze did not falter.

“Petty, defiant, scared, hopeless anger,” Anders hated every word as it left his mouth for the sheer truth they represented, “I am sure I tried to tell you at some point did I not? That’s most of what I am. Not all, no I wouldn’t sell myself that low but, well...I don’t...I’m not made for this. Not made to be a leader, or a fighter. Not made to be a pariah or a scion to either side. This fight it’s...”

He lifted his head, refusing to back down. Not made to be a leader or a fighter, but that’s what you are now. That’s what they need you to be.

“It’s more trying than I’d anticipated,” he continued, “for so long it had been all of us, the rebellion, as many as there could be, banding together. Lashing out when we felt we could, keeping the templars on their toes. But now, well, now I feel they all look to me to make things right. I don’t know if I can do it, yet everyone seems to think I can. Maker knows why.”

The fire crackled and spat as a log shifted down. Anders glanced up at Hawke. He was staring at the rug beneath his feet. Anders wished the man would look at him but wasn’t sure if he had the authority to demand it. Or if a demand would only undermine everything that lay between them.

“Honestly, I never thought it would come to the point where we needed a leader,” he continued, putting the shirt down next to him on the bed, “Before, with Justice, things were going to be very different.”

“But Justice isn’t here anymore,” Hawke spoke up suddenly, “is he.”

“No,” Anders said, eyeing the rogue warily, “he isn’t. And perhaps that’s not as a good a thing as I’d hoped it would be.”

“Oh fuck, I didn’t hear you say that,” Hawke shook his head, tone acid, walking out into the room, “after everything you went through to get rid of it and now you’re _sorry_ it’s gone?”

“Everything I went through?” Anders asked coldly, “I’m sorry, but you appear to be under the illusion that I travelled thousands of miles in order to have one of my closest friends ripped from my being by a completely insane blood mage. I hate to be the one to shatter your hopes, Garret, but that had never truly been the plan, no.”

“So you would have..?” Hawke’s tight words snapped off as he turned, facing him, “Would we have lived that way forever? Would we have never been free of it? Just us, for one moment _just us_ Anders.”

“It’s just us now,” Anders answered, “and it doesn’t seem to have done us much good, does it.”

A heavy silence prevailed. Part of Anders wished he could scoop the words back up, say he was sorry, beg Hawke to forgive him, for he was a guilty, unworthy fool and he would do anything to make it right. Only that part, as of late, had become a diminishing aspect of his personality. Instead Anders watched Hawke blanch, then turn away and walk to the fire, with only a mild sense of pity.

“I’m not made to be in love,” he said, looking down at the Chantry scar on the back of his left hand, “because for me love is always fleeting and always destined to fail. And when I can’t take it? I revert to base, foolish anger and I lash out. Or I leave, just run. I find something else to take me away from it all and I indulge in that instead.”

Hawke did not speak, nor move. He stood, stock still, staring into the flames, his broad shoulders set. Anders was mildly surprised that he did not need any confirmation in order to continue.

“But then I suppose I wasn’t _made_ for a lot of things. I wasn’t made to be a leader, yet here I am. I was the one Cousland left to command the troops at Vigil’s Keep while he and the other senior Wardens left for Amaranthine when the darkspawn attacked. That turned out better than expected. I was the one who others used to look to in the Circle, to speak up on their behalf, to speak up when no one else dared to. I have enough scars to attest to that. And now here I am, being looked to once more. It seems that with enough encouragement,” he smiled barely at his own joke, “anyone can change.”

“By Andraste Anders that’s the last thing I want!”

Despite his sudden outburst, Hawke had barely moved. When Anders stood, looking to him, he could only barely see the flash of one eye over the man’s shoulder. Anders watched him carefully, as Hawke moved back and forth on his feet, before approaching softly. He stood by him at the fire, close enough to feel the brush of fine material against his naked forearm. He left it quiet, because, as he expected, Hawke also had things on his mind. Eventually, the man spoke, his words tight and irritated.

“When I was...no, I don’t know how to explain I...” Hawke closed his eyes and started again, taking a long breath, “I’d never expected to be where I am, now I mean. Just a farm boy, with no aspirations beyond the usual want to travel, to find someone, someone I could be with and...and maybe settle down somewhere. As much of a foolish dream it was, I doubt it was out of the ordinary.”

Anders found himself under scrutiny as Hawke looked to him. His eyes begged reassurance.

“Well,” Anders said, a small smile at his lips, “I did read a lot of romance novels in the Circle.”

“Very helpful,” Hawke shook his head, “but then, well, then my father died. And the Blight came. Suddenly I was a soldier and my home was burning. My brother was dead. I’d never say coming to Kirkwall was easy but I’ve grown fond of this city. No matter how much I should loathe it. Becoming the Champion wasn’t something I aspired to, it’s just natural to defend what you love. Now I’m not sure I even deserve the title. I honestly don’t know who would.”

The words bit at him and Anders frowned. Slowly he listed the traits he’d had to lose in order to fulfil his sudden but inevitable role. As far as he was concerned they fitted the role of Champion of Kirkwall rather well. It was a sobering and encouraging thought.

“Someone kind,” he said softly, “Someone selfless. Someone who values life over religion or race. Someone brave. Someone willing to make the tough decisions. Someone willing to sacrifice for the greater good.”

“Oh,” Hawke said, shaking his head as he smirked, “is that all?”

“You are all of those things Hawke.”

“No, I’m not.”

“That’s funny, I could have sworn you were,” Anders rebutted, “who was it again that duelled a Qunari twice his size in order to save the lives of everyone in the city?”

“I wasn’t given much of a choice.”

“You took the only choice you knew to be right. That’s what being a Champion means. You made the tough decision, and you sacrificed your safety for theirs. You were brave, you were kind, you were selfless. It’s why they named you Champion Hawke, don’t belittle yourself.”

“And yet if I’d simply handed over Isabela I could have stopped the bloodshed before it started.”

Anders would have replied if he hadn’t been simultaneously shocked and confused by the statement. He looked to the man by his side, staring once more into the fire. It was almost instinctual to reach out and touch him, despite trying his best to be serious. Hawke did not relax beneath his palm as it ran across his forearm. Anders pulled back slowly.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he decided to say, because it was simpler than understanding.

“I did it for Isabela,” Hawke said, “I could have taken the nobler route, I could have saved everyone who died. But I didn’t. I wanted to keep her safe because she was...she is my friend. One life for so many more lost. I gave them all to the Arishok when I let her leave. I’m not...not made for making the hard decisions Anders. I’m too selfish. It makes me weak. Sometimes I wonder if it was guilt that had me accept the Arishok’s invitation to a duel. A way to make right everything I had put wrong.”

“Don’t be so foolish,” Anders rebuked, trying for levity even as he felt disturbed by Hawke’s words, “Hawke, if there’s anything less attractive than self doubt it’s self deprecation.”

“I wasn’t built for this either,” Hawke shook his head, “ha, look at us both! A pair of misfits pushed to be Generals in a war that doesn’t truly exist. I’m not sure how we got here. I’m just glad that we came here together, because I don’t think I could do this alone.”

“You won’t,” Anders felt the words stick in his throat; dear Maker, don’t turn me into a hypocrite, not again.

“I swear, I love this city Anders,” Hawke said, finally turning to look at him, “but I’d see it razed to the ground before I see you hurt for the sake of this Maker forsaken war. If it’s all I have, this influence, this ideal of a Champion, then I’ll see it’s used right. I’ll make this right for us.”

“This is about more than just us,” Anders said softly, feeling distinctly uneasy, “you know that now.”

“I do,” Hawke nodded, “I do.”

They made their way to the bed at Hawke’s prompting, and Anders decided it was futile to expect a better explanation. Guilt made him quiet, even as he stayed true to the idea that what he was doing was right. More than just us, Hawke, he thought, this is about far more than just us.

* * *

 

_Present Day_

The sound of approaching feet, more than one person, had Anders turn his head towards the door in apprehension. He had barely finished the glyph, small and discreet, dragged across the stone in blood when the sound of the door being unbarred loudly proclaimed that he was surely to be questioned. So soon? Anders thought worriedly. He wiped hurriedly at the wall and quickly sucked on the wound in his finger before pressing his fingertips together to stop the bleeding. The last thing I need, Anders thought as he lifted his hand to shield his eyes from the torch glare, is for Meredith to think I’m using blood magic.

And speak of the devil, Anders thought as his eyes adjusted. He looked up at Meredith, seemingly larger than his small form what with her platemail. She watched him calculatingly, her back straight and her hands clasped behind her. She cocked her head slightly when Anders frowned.

“Can I help you?” he knew he shouldn’t be pushing it, he knew that being in Meredith’s good graces would at least help him stay as safe as he could be, but his mouth seemed to have been hotwired to the part of his brain that was screaming at him: _she killed them, she killed them all_.

“Yes, actually,” Meredith said, jerking her head at the templar to her right; the man took two strides across the floor and quickly hauled Anders up by his arm, “you can come with me.”

“I can walk perfectly well on my own,” he said darkly, shaking the templar’s grip on his bicep. The man looked at Meredith as if awaiting an order.

“It’s alright, Behlen,” Meredith said with a small nod, “he volunteered.”

Anders didn’t think he’d ever heard the word ‘volunteered’ sound so sinister. He didn’t allow the anxiety to show on his face. Instead, as he was led out of the cell and after the quick march of the Knight Commander, he used his journey to familiarise himself with the layout of the prison. One, two, three, four, five cells were set into this corridor, offset: three on my side, two on the other. A right at the end of the corridor, down a door-less, windowless hall before taking a left into a spiral staircase. How far down does it go? Anders thought as he kept a keen eye on his surroundings.

When he realised exactly where they had taken him, he almost wished he hadn’t. He almost wished, as the door before them opened and he was forced to walk into a room that stank immediately of blood, urine and faeces, that he could lose touch with his all senses. The air was grim, murky, and there was a hot smell that prickled at his nose, like a forge at the blacksmith’s. As the door shut behind them, he understood why the word ‘volunteered’ had sounded so wrong on Meredith’s lips; it hadn’t only been sinister, it had been mocking.

“So,” Anders said as he was pushed further into the room. The torchlight illuminated the unsavoury array of devices which the templars did not seem overly concerned with. A rack at the far end, the straps open, a chair to his right, the leather restraints unbuckled. He didn’t even look at the tools set out on the three tables to his left. He’d rather not know, “now I see why Hawke wasn’t granted admission to the show.”

“We’ll see how long that flippant attitude of yours lasts,” Meredith said as she removed her headwear, “blood mage.”

“Blood mage?” Anders scoffed, shaking his head, “Oh please, isn’t that getting a bit old? Anyway, I doubt that’s the worst story you’ve heard about me.”

“I wasn’t finished,” Meredith said, continuing as the templar who had manhandled his arm earlier once more took hold of him. Anders couldn’t help but swallow as he was led to the chair and pushed down into it. They wasted no time in fastening the straps across his arms and legs while Meredith continued, “abomination, rebel, conspirator, murderer. You have been implicated in many crimes in this city, including but not limited to the premeditated murder of my troops and consorting with demons.”

“The only demons I’ve ever consorted with were entirely human,” Anders retorted, even when the strap around his forehead was fitted and pulled tight; he forced his breathing to remain steady, watching Meredith as the stared at him with a sullen fury, “is this how you conduct all your questionings?”

“Only on those I know to be guilty,” Meredith said, making Anders’ eyes narrow, “do not think of it as a questioning, mage, think of it as a confession.”

“Confession? I’ve never been,” Anders replied darkly.

“That does not surprise me,” Meredith said coldly.

She turned to one of her templars, still faceless in their helmets, and nodded. Anders watched as Meredith walked to the doorway, feeling a sense of dread pool in his stomach. If she’s leaving then I suppose she expects her confession when she returns. It was as she stopped near the doorway that Anders frowned. Meredith took a seat at a small desk which he hadn’t noticed as they entered, pulling out a slice of parchment and opening a small inkwell. She seemed unreasonably unperturbed by the situation. Anders, in comparison, forced his breathing to remain steady. She’s going to...

Calm, he thought, I have to be calm. _He could feel the sweat on his brow_. I have a purpose, I have a mission. _The templars moved around behind him but the sounds made him flinch, metal against stone, the sound of a fire._ I have someone to find, someone who can perhaps make sense of all the madness I’ve been going through.

Someone who can help us. Save us.

“I had hoped to have little trouble with you,” Anders heard Meredith say as she ran her fingers delicately through the feather on her quill, “what with your obvious want to give yourself up. Still, this will allow us to assess for ourselves just how much of what you say is true, yes? And, well, it would be imprudent of me to give you his name, wouldn’t it. Let’s just say that one of my templars was recently killed on patrol in Lowtown along with three of her compatriots. This man here,” she said, gesturing to the templar now observing the poker in his hand as if it were not truly hot enough, “is her brother. I thought it would be practical to allow him to show his worth.”

The sound of metal moving against metal set his teeth on edge. One of the templars walked into his field of vision. Anders couldn’t take his eyes from the glowing end of the poker which emerged as one of the templars picked up the cooler end, dislodging a few white hot coals from the brazier. He stared, watching as it drew closer.

 _Her brother_ , he was unable to stop himself from thinking, dear Maker forgive me, it’s my fault. It’s all my fault. No, his conscience rebutted harshly, you’re here for more than just yourself, more than just your guilt and your pity. This isn’t just about you any more Anders. Everyone is relying upon you. You _must_ stay strong.

He was unable to look to the other templar as the man spoke, somewhere to his right, out of his line of sight.

“For the sanctity of your soul and what little pity the Maker may take on you, mage,” the man said, his tone cold and irrevocably pious as the heat of the poker against his face forced Anders’ breath from him as a choked gasp, “ _confess_.”


	15. Mouth (part 3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is from three different point's of view. The name of the narrator will be given in Italics, so watch for the changes!  
> Also thank you so much for the kind reviews for last chapter. I'm sorry I left you all in such suspense for so long! I hope the rapid update makes up for it.
> 
> Also I realise I've stolen Varric's nickname for the Iron Bull and applied it to Callum. It just seemed so appropriate, considering how tall he is. I'll think of another for Bull when we get to him!

_Callum_

He wanted to strike him. A foreign feeling, not something he normally turned to. Yet now, here, facing the man as he stood in the centre of his spacious, luxurious living room and spoke, Callum wanted nothing more than to beat Garret Hawke with his hands until they bloodied.

“You _left_ him there!?”

“I had no choice,” Hawke replied tersely, “it was Anders’ decision, and Meredith was all too keen to take him up on the offer.”

“That’s hardly my fucking point, sweetheart,” Callum said through gritted teeth, gesturing sharply, “my point is more based around the fact that you _let_ him! _Of course_ Anders volunteered, that doesn’t bloody surprise me in the slightest. Man’s mad as a fucking hatter most of the time. I thought you’d know better than to allow him his eccentricities. Especially the life threatening ones!”

“You know the part I liked best about that?” Hawke seethed, pinning Callum with a glare, “The part where you question my _knowing better_. I know Anders a _thousand_ times better than you do, mate, and the last thing I need right now is some hopped up little shit questioning me when I’m trying to think of a plan!”

“Oh, he’s thinking of a plan,” Callum mockingly widened his eyes and lifted his hands, smiling, “bless me, I didn’t realised we were _saved_. Call off the reinforcements. Andraste’s flaming _tits!_ ” he bit out as he turned and stormed from the room; something unpleasant was called after him but he chose to ignore it in place of being truly terrified of the situation he had found himself in.

Idiot, he thought, Flaming great _moron_! Volunteer to be taken into the templar jail? The impenetrable templar _fleshammel_? Into the one place even Anders’ Champion lover could not storm nor plead with nor influence in any way? Maker’s breath, he thought as the knot in his throat tightened, why does he have to be such a righteous fool?

And why couldn’t he have told me? It was the main question circling Callum’s mind as he continued his thumping walk to the kitchens. I would have talked him out of it, I would have _knocked him out_ if that was the only option. I would have...done something! Anything! Anything but this...

He found himself in the pantry staring at a large wheel of cheese, only slimly cut into. Standing, shaking, the tart smell of it was potent and made his stomach growl. He was hungry, he knew he was hungry, and yet suddenly the thought of eating merely made him feel ill. Every time he tried to do something normal, something every day, it was interrupted by thoughts of what could be happening in the Gallows at that same moment. Why do I have to have such a vivid imagination? He asked himself with grim humour.

Before he knew it he had started to laugh. Low at first, merely a rumble, but then it became louder, harder, slowly building until he could feel tears running down his cheeks. Then it was difficult to tell what he was even laughing about, if he’d ever known, and the tears became real and the laugh became a choked sob. Anders, he thought wearily, shaking his head as he flopped down and sat on the cold floor. His face crumpled and he ran his hand over his eyes. What have you done my love? he asked hoping someone would hear and answer him, What have you done?

* * *

 

It had been around nine hours, as far as he could gauge it. Nine hours since Hawke had returned with only Varric and Fenris at his heels. Longer than that since Anders had been taken down into the Gallows, if Callum was to factor in travelling time; which he did not like to do, because it simply made it _longer_. 

They had been playing Wicked Grace in the sitting room, he and Varric and Merrill, for about two hours before Callum could no longer endure the _sitting still_ and the _acting as if nothing was wrong_ and the _waiting_. Merrill had not been the best company. She was quiet, yes, but she was fractious, always biting at her nails and flicking her eyes up to them at any chance she got. He kept seeing out the corner of his eye but couldn’t snap out a command to stop. He couldn’t bring himself to be so cruel. Instead he was simply relieved when she declared that she was tired and slipped off to bed.

Now, alone with Varric, he’d thought it would be easier. It turned out he was finding he could be wrong about a lot of things.

“Hey, Tiny, it’s your turn,” Varric was saying, watching him carefully with a raised brow, “you need some more time to think about those cards or..?”

It was with a steady arm and no rush that Callum lifted his hand and casually brushed the entire game off of the table and onto the floor in a flutter of cards. Varric watched the proceedings without comment, looking down at the mess settling by their feet.

“...or not.”

The wind whistled, rattling the eaves. Callum folded his arms upon the table and sat his chin upon them. His eyes stared at nothing but the knots in the wood. Varric pulled together the cards in his hand and placed the pile down in front of him, sitting up from his comfortable slouch.

“I get that you’re not in the mood,” Varric said cautiously, “but sitting there _thinking_ about it is only going to play mad house with your mind.”

Callum looked up with just his eyes. Varric frowned under the scrutiny, following his gaze as Callum straightened up, still slightly stooped. His frown only deepened when Callum smiled grimly and scrubbed at one bearded cheek. Everything felt slightly surreal in the warm candlelight. Memories were all that fluttered in his mind.

“Do you know,” Callum said softly, “that he gave his life for mine? Feels like a lifetime ago now.”

“Who?”

“Anders. That is he...I was...I mean he should have chosen me, he would surely never choose the _bastard_ over me and instead...”

“You’re not making much sense over there,” Varric spoke up as Callum faded off.

“I owe him my life,” Callum reiterated strongly, “and so does that shit next door, crying into his damn pillows. Yet what are we doing? Sitting here like lame ducks who’ve forgotten they have wings!”

“And have also apparently forgotten they aren’t one man armies with the ability to shit death and destruction,” Varric replied soberly, “unless you can and that’s something you’ve been keeping to yourself, Tiny.”

“Don’t joke about this,” Callum said in a heavy whispering tone.

“Then don’t make it into a joke,” Varric shot back, “because if you do something stupid and reckless then you’re not better than Blondie for getting himself locked up in the first place.”

“We can’t just _sit_ here!” Callum finally burst out.

“We’re _not_ just sitting here,” Varric said, leaning back in his chair and keeping one hand on his pile of cards, “we’re waiting for Hawke to finish his plan and then, when he does, we’re going to help him.”

“And you believe in that!?”

“I believe in Hawke,” Varric said sternly; Callum felt mildly reproached. It wasn’t often he saw Varric serious, “and that, despite my many warnings against it, he loves Blondie more than any of us ever could. Even more than you.”

“Whatever that’s supposed to mean,” Callum muttered, rubbing at his mouth and looking down at the cards upon the floor.

“Oh come on, Tiny,” Varric let out a stilted laugh, “it’s as obvious as a Qunari at a Tevinter soiree! But don’t let it get you carried away. Sure you’ve gone and fallen for the most unstable and dangerous man in Kirkwall, but don’t forget what he is and why he does what he does. There’s not going to be a fairytale ending for him, even if I wish there would be.”

“Maker Varric, _please_ ,” Callum was shocked by how desperate he sounded, “not now, please just don’t say things like...like that just now.”

“Right,” Varric said softly as Callum covered his eyes, rubbing them tightly, “sorry.”

They sat in silence for a while, listening to the fire crackle, before Callum finally stood up. He felt his back protest the movement, his legs also stiff and sore. Varric watched him out of the corner of his eye.

“Suppose I’d better go and see about this plan, then,” Callum said wearily, “Make sure he’s not ballsing it up.”

* * *

 

_Hawke_

The list seemed so short. So depressingly short. Hawke felt the quill between his fingers and resisted the urge to pinch and crush the delicate feather. When he heard a slight, tinny tapping he realised that his hand was shaking, knocking the quill against the glass inkwell as he held it inside. For a few moments it fascinated him, watching his hand shake and twitch. Eventually he put the quill into the pot and sat back in his chair, hand to his mouth.

It was a long time since he’d been afraid. This afraid. The sort of fear that made your mind go blank or your own body to betray you, as his hands were doing now. Even in Nordbotten, _he could still remember the feeling of agony splitting open his skin, crawling across his body as he struggled_...even then the adrenaline had left no place for fear. Even after when...when he thought he’d lost him for good, with Anders laying cold and dead on a stone plinth in Weisshaupt it hadn’t been fear. It had been eventual resignation and deep, deep seated emptiness. Not like this. Not like fear.

Now there was a chance to make everything right again, somehow, _there must be_ , and the fear bloomed from the thought of failure and everything that came with it. Best case scenario they got him back. Worse they got him back once Meredith had plied her trade. Worse again and he was dead. Worse still...

_Seeing the livid red against the pale skin on the back of his hand, the sickening sun that drove out thoughts and feelings and all sense of self, that left behind nothing but a benign husk where there should be laughter and hurt and resentment and love. The relief that came when he realised Alrik had failed in his plan had been overwhelming. Enough for him to finally admit once and for all..._

_I love you. I love you._

Hawke knew what Anders would want. He had never made it plain, never asked outright but...Hawke knew. Rather dead than tranquil, and he would do it. He would. Hawke closed his eyes and felt his hand shake against his mouth, pressed there so tightly. He balled it into a fist in frustration, screwing his eyes tighter shut. It wouldn’t come to that. No. Not that.

Eyes open once more, he stared down at the list of seven names. _Not enough_. Then think harder, he told himself harshly. Just as he reached for the quill again a knock at his door stopped him. He stayed still, hoping they would believe him asleep. It was late after all, past midnight, and he was in no mood to entertain whoever might have come to console him. When the knock came again, more forceful this time he sighed harshly, standing with a scrape of chair legs across stone.

“Yes, what is it?” he asked as he hauled the door open on its heavy hinges, only to find Callum standing on the other side. He frowned and considered slamming the door in his face. Unfortunately the other man spoke before he got his chance.

“This plan,” Callum said quietly, “how does it go exactly?”

“Funny, I was sure you seemed rather sceptical earlier,” Hawke said spitefully.

“Well, I haven’t...been able to come up with anything myself.”

“Shocking.”

“This really isn’t the time, don’t you think?”

“Oh I don’t know,” Hawke said, beginning to feel better for the chance to take out his frustration on someone, “ _I’m_ quite enjoying this. Please, by all means, continue to tell me about your failures.”

“Tell me your plan,” Callum ground out, “and I’ll happily oblige.”

Hawke faltered. Callum smiled. Hawke felt the lump of fear in his stomach twist unpleasantly. _Anders_.

“I’m guessing it’s not much of one,” Callum said.

“Did you come here to help?” Hawke retorted; he was momentarily ashamed by how desperate he sounded.

“I...” Callum hesitated, frowning, “of course I did.”

“Then stop standing around out there like a fucking great tree and get in here.”

He looked up, locking eyes. Callum shifted on his feet but Hawke was unable to tell if it was due to unease or anger. When Callum decided to enter he didn’t wait for Hawke to move aside, simply pushed his way in. Hawke clamped down on the angry shout he wanted to give and kept his mouth angrily shut. He closed the door and put his hands on his hips before striding back to his desk and sitting down. When the silence became too much he turned in his chair and stared at the tall man who was currently walking around the room, peering at things.

“If you’re quite done,” he said tightly.

“... _Tree_ ,” Callum said after a moment’s pause, “was that really the best you could come up with?”

“My mind isn’t really on the job right now. I‘m sure you understand.”

“If we’re going to do this...” Callum said, picking up a small, bronze figurine of a mabari that Anders had given Hawke the summer before; Hawke stood up and grabbed the ornament from Callum’s hands, holding it possessively. Callum watched him closely before continuing, “...if we’re going to do this then could we perhaps dispense with the formalities? It’s doing my head in.”

“I...” _couldn’t care less_ , was what he’d been about to say. Would have said, if he’d had the energy. Now, staring up at the bronze mabari as he placed it back on the mantelpiece, he had to force himself to face his situation. _Anders, love_. _A bright smile. A quick laugh_. Hawke closed his eyes and rubbed at them harshly before answering, “yes, of course. You asked about...about my plan.”

“That’s right,” Callum nodded, watching him with respectful surprise.

Hawke ignored the man’s reaction and walked back to his desk strictly, picking up the now dry sheet of scrap papyrus. He returned to Callum and handed it to him. The tall man looked at it blankly.

“Those are the names of seven prominent noble families here in Kirkwall,” Hawke said steadily, “ones that have good reason to owe me a favour. There are more, I know there are, I just...haven’t been able to think of them. Varric should be able to help with that.”

“You’re going to ask the _nobles_ for help?” Callum looked cynical.

“You’d be surprised how far a little political reach can get you in this city. It’s the best I’ve got, but...I’ve never done anything like this before. I know I’m not the best diplomat, but I can’t think of any other way. Meredith doesn’t listen to anyone, not the First enchanter, not the Viscount when he was alive. Not even the Grand Cleric, for Maker’s sake! The only thing I can think she might respond to is the people. The notable people. Those with power enough to make her life difficult. The sort you don’t want to piss off royally.”

“Noble families,” Callum nodded in agreement, even if he didn’t seem to like the idea, “the ones with impressive lineage that they like to shake at the peons to make them tremble. Do you think they’ll do it? I mean, they’ll have to be some hefty favours they owe if they’re going to start hassling the Knight Commander to release a wanted apostate from the bloody Gallows.”

“Oh they’ll do it alright,” Hawke smiled grimly, “because if the favours they owe me can’t be called in, then I always have the secrets they’d rather didn’t come to light.”

“Blackmail?”

“Vast amounts of blackmail.”

The sheet of paper was returned to him carefully and Hawke took it. When he looked up, Callum was smiling at him. A genuine smile. Hawke wasn’t used to the expression on the man’s face. He frowned.

“What?”

“Nothing, I just...” Callum said, shaking his head, “I’ll go get Varric for you. See if we can’t make this list a little longer.”

It was an odd feeling at first. Not a feeling he associated with Callum Crummock. It took a while to recognise it fully. Hawke sat down and put his head in his hands, taking in a hitching breath and letting it out as a long sigh.

Relief.

* * *

 

Two days. It had been two days. On the second it had rained. Hawke remembered that, vaguely, mainly because it meant his ‘runners’ always came back drenched. The list had grown to seventeen and Hawke had become hopeful. Though, as the replies were brought back by his runners, he found it difficult to keep that hopefulness alive.

Two days. What could have happened in two days? Hawke frowned down at the paper before him on the table in the sitting room as Varric sat on the couch and piled the returned letters neatly. What could have happened? He thought bleakly, He might already be dead and I wouldn’t even know. I wouldn’t even...

“The Montfords,” Hawke said quickly as if to interrupt his own thoughts.

“Said they feel this is something they could lend their support to. Injustice is not something they wish to see fostered in this noble city. Or some bullshit like that.”

“Alright, that’s all I need to know. The Launcet’s?”

“You know they said yes. Matriarch Viola is still deluded enough to think you might marry her daughter one day.”

“I hope you didn’t offer that as barter,” Hawke said with a significant stare.

“Of course not,” Varric smirked, “but suggestion is a powerful tool. She filled in the blanks herself. Nothing binding, Hawke.”

“Fine. The Krayvan’s.”

“Didn’t go over so well.”

“Right, put them on the other list. The Ivo’s and the Deghmont’s are the only two left.”

“Nothing back. They refused an audience, but the servant at the door said they’d pass the message on.”

The sound of a quiet sniff from the other side of the room pulled his gaze to the chairs facing the windows which looked out over the courtyard. Hawke looked up at the sound, just able to see the top of Crummock’s hair above the headrest. On the windowsill, Fenris sat as a stark silhouette. He had been that way for days, as if sitting poised and ready. It felt a little unsettling that the elf might be waiting for an order.

“It’s just not good enough, that,” came the man’s low voice, “is it.”

“No,” Hawke said, “it’s not.”

“So, what do we do now?” Varric asked.

“You willing to forego a few more principals?” Hawke called over to Callum, even as he sorted the paperwork in his hands.

When the light shifted Hawke looked back to find the tall man standing against the glare from the windows. He took that as a ‘yes’. Hawke smiled; not a nice smile, he knew.

“Fenris,” Hawke said; the elf’s eyes snapped to his, “I need you to find me ways in and out of the noble’s estates on this list. Take Isabella with you. She’s good at distractions.”

Fenris walked past him without a word, snatching the paper from his hands as he went. Hawke sighed and rubbed at his shoulder, sore from writing hunched over his desk for hours. When he looked up he found Callum towering over him. Hawke smiled grimly.

“Then it’s time to teach you how to intimidate, my friend.”

* * *

 

_Callum_

Four days. It had been four days, or it would be once the sun came up.

Four days too long, as far as he was concerned. Callum stood, fiddling with the lock to the Clinic and, after a few more goes, heard it click. He fumbled the lantern lit and stalked inside, pulling out the one, lone, rickety chair in the hovel before sitting down rigidly. Sasha lumbered in after him, wagging her tail as if expecting to see something which was not there. She sniffed around for a few minutes before giving up, trotting over to lie down by his feet and put her head despondently on her paws.

Quiet. It was very, unsettlingly quiet. He scratched his nose and tried to relax the bunched muscles at his shoulders. It was only once he had done so that he realised just how tightly he’d been wound; he felt as if his neck was three feet longer just for the swift drop of his shoulders back to where they should be.

“Maker’s balls,” he muttered to himself, “Crummock you’re a stupid fuck sometimes you know that?”

And he did know it. Only he tried to avoid it most days. Always easier to avoid the things you hated about yourself.

He’d mucked up the visit to the Ivo’s. No, more than mucked up. He’d completely destroyed any chance they had of garnering their support. The Krayvan’s had been easy. Sneak in the back door while the servants were taking in the morning delivery of vegetables, quickly up the stairs, find the bedroom easy, _it always had the most worn handle_ , slide in quiet-like and then stand above the bed of Lord shithead, wake him with a hand over his mouth to muffle the scream and then lean down and _explain_ to him just why it would be in his best interests to agree with the Champion’s humble request.

It had been a rush, he wouldn’t deny it. Been a long time since he’d broke into a place without the intention of stealing something or just finding a dry place to spend the night. Feeling the trembling skin of the old fucker under this clammy palm, letting out muffled squeaks anytime Callum asked him if he understood. It had been vilifying, wonderful, _hot and slick and so very exciting_. Enough to distract him, if only for a while. Distract him from the clock and from the growing number of days that ticked by.

The Daghmont’s had been just as simple. He had been cocky, it was true. Two victories in his belt and he felt they were two steps closer. Hawke had taught him quickly and sternly. He would be a liar if he said the man was bad at what he did. Garret Hawke was probably the most intimidating man Callum had ever met, and that was saying something.

_“Is that supposed to scare me?” Hawke bit out._

_His eyes were piercing as Callum tried to replicate the words and the tone and the body language Hawke had just shown him. Callum was finding it difficult to concentrate on intimidating a man who was currently intimidating him in return._

_“Maybe if you stopped looking at me like you want to eat my unborn children it would be simpler.”_

_“And maybe if you could_ start _looking at me in a similar fashion I wouldn’t need to.”_

_“I’m trying my best! It’s not natural for me, alright?”_

_“No, not alright,” Hawke growled, “you think this is some sort of joke?”_

_“Of course I don’t!”_

_“You think I’m doing this for fucking fun?”_

_“Look, no need to get nasty, I’m...”_

_“You thinking about what they’re doing to him, down there behind that locked door with no one to help him?”_

_A punch to the gut would have been a kinder punishment. Callum’s lips formed a thin line, his breathing coming harsh through his nose. He clenched and unclenched his hands, watching Hawke steadily. The man did not flinch._

_“Ever seen someone tortured?” Hawke asked steadily, standing up to his full height, “I have. Not something you forget, really.”_

_“Stop,” he’d been unable to form much more than a harsh whisper, and Hawke continued regardless._

_“Worked for a group of smugglers when I first arrived here. Not out of choice, mind, I was basically sold to them in order to barter our way into the city. Athenril was a fair boss but she didn’t mess around,” Hawke didn’t take his eyes from him, barely blinked as far as Callum could see, “and if you crossed her she made an example of you. Kept a man alive for three days once.”_

_“Please, stop...”_

_“Started with his feet. Lots of ways to cripple someone without even breaking the skin...”_

_He had moved before he even realised what he was doing. Involuntary, mostly. He had Hawke backed up against the nearest wall without even touching him, crowding him there, his hands coming out to slam into the wall beside the smaller man’s head, his eyes ablaze, his voice barely recognisable..._

_“I said shut your fucking mouth!”_

_He’d felt the tear slip down his cheek before he registered that he was hauling in gasps of air, his chest heaving. There had been but a moment’s silence before Hawke had lifted a surprisingly gentle hand and patted him on the shoulder, moving him gently back._

_“That’s it,” he’d said softly, “now let’s see if we can get you to do it without looking like you’re going to collapse.”_

_It had only been as Callum forced himself to calm down that he caught a glimpse of Hawke out the corner of his eye, staring blankly at the ground. Only then he had realised that this was hurting Hawke just as much as it was him. He had pulled himself up straight and wiped fiercely at his face._

_“Alright,” he said, “again then.”_

And so he’d become Hawke’s man, to an extent, ready to take the place of the Champion. Take the place of the man who couldn’t be seen scouring the city for nobles to terrify into obedience; and it had all gone so well.

Until Ivo. Getting caught by the servant was the start of the downhill spiral. A curt, _who’re you?_ as he walked up the grand, main stairway. Luckily he hadn’t panicked and, instead had managed to talk his way around it. Made the servant think Callum was a lordly retainer waiting to be seen. Exude enough pomp and arrogance, Callum had always found, and any servant crumbled. Fear of reprimand went a long way.

Then he’d been taken directly to Lady Ivo, with many apologies and opening of doors without question. Then suddenly she’d appeared, standing from the chaise lounge with seeming effortlessness . Tall and elegant, red gold hair trussed up beneath a smart, silver hairpiece. Small, cherubian nose and high cheeks. He’d been unable to think on his feet. _My husband is absent_ , she had said, _but I shall endeavour to serve you as best I can in his place_.

It had all started so innocently, and he’d been at a loss because his plan hadn’t been to bloody _talk_ to anyone face to face and, well, she was a lady and he wasn’t even well into the way of intimidating men yet, never mind ladies and, when she’d sent her own servant from the room, an old matronly woman who was clearly a chaperone, it had been obvious what she wanted and, well, he’d just thought...

He’d just thought that there was more than one way to skin a cat, that was all. When she’d leaned in to kiss him he’d let her. Mumbled out his reason for visiting between touches of lips. _The Champion of Kirkwall asks for your aid, my Lady_ , he’d said. _Then he shall have it,_ she had replied, _my husband shall see to it at once. Now, no more talk._ It had almost reached the stage of ‘no more talk’ when Lord Ivo returned, with the matronly chaperone at his heels.

It was chaos, and he was lucky to escape with his head intact considering the deadly looking blade the man had unsheathed with a bright ring as soon as he had burst into the room. He felt he had to thank the Lady herself for his escape, Callum thought as he reached down and stroked Sasha, ruffling the dog’s fur affectionately. She had distracted her husband long enough for Callum to get to the nearest window and drop himself out of it. He was still overly grateful to Fenris for finding the hidden sewer entrance near the Ivo estate. His ankle still hurt from the fall.

Idiot, he chastised himself once more. You bloody idiot. He hung his head, waiting to hear any knocks at the door. He’d told himself he would come to the clinic, see if he could at least help out when he was no longer needed for ‘errands’. It was what Anders would have wanted him to do.

The silence carried, dead and flat.

Four days. Hawke’s stern voice came back to him, loud as if he were in the room.

_Started with his feet._

He wished he could tell him to stop but the memory was livid and breaking.

_Lots of ways to cripple someone without even breaking the skin..._

Four days.

Callum closed his eyes and wept.

* * *

 

_Cullen_

The letter was difficult to read by the light of the lone candle. His quarters always grew dark in the early evening, facing east out over the waters. The smell of hot, dry seaweed, baked by the sun throughout the day, wafted up and filled him with a lingering nausea. He stood up and closed the windows, flicking the latches shut. The stuffiness was preferable to the smell.

Fishing about it the gloom Cullen jerked open the drawer at the bottom of his study desk and found another stub. He placed it on the only other candleholder he owned, a small silver spike atop a plate, and used the other candle to light it.

Better. Not wonderful, but better at least. He blinked his eyes and tried to focus on the dark script before him. After the third line he winced, rubbing at his eyes. His hands itched, enough to be noticeable; and his eyes stung. Enough to make it difficult to focus. _No_ , he thought, No it’s alright. I’m alright. He looked back to the letter and continued as best he could.

His sister had found him, at last. He knew she would track him down eventually, she always did. She had an uncanny ability to find lost family members, along with a sharp tongue and lack of pulled punches. He knew he deserved it, but after Ferelden, the Circle...he hadn’t been in a fit state of mind to tell anyone anything much. He’d just wanted away, far away, and Kirkwall had been as good a place as any. Yet here was his sister, following his trail and doling out her usual sarcastic retorts. Cullen had always been convinced she would have made a far better templar than he ever could.

Far better. Not that it would be difficult to be better than himself. Cullen hung his head, rubbing at the tired skin around his eyes. It felt thin, weak. As if it would break under the slightest pressure. _Blood running past bright, blue eyes, above an eerie smile as she..._

“No!” he bit out, blinking away the sudden image.

Silence was his only reply. A shiver up his spine had him shaking, his shoulders alive with movement and a need to get up, walk about, shake off the memories. He shouldn’t have thought of it, he berated himself silently. It had been five years since then, since Uldred, and yet still, when he brought the memories up out of the dark...

_“Don’t you see? It’s me, I’m here to help you! Just give me your hand,” the smiling face had looked so much like hers, so much like the woman he shouldn’t have allowed himself to fall in love with, her robes shining and her dark hair falling about her face._

And he’d taken it, like a fool. How many times had he taken it before he realised that it would never be real? He had lost count. How long before he learned? He hadn’t. Not even when Cousland shouted at him, demanding his help. Every time his tortured mind had shattered and he had reached out desperately for that pale, delicate hand, the demon would laugh and laugh and destroy her image before his very eyes; blood dripping, skin melting from bones, teeth falling to the floor, eyes bursting and running and...

“Shut up,” he whispered, but the voice, the _laugh_ , refused to dissipate; he put the letter down and rubbed his fingers together tightly, blinking.

Broken silence. _Grinning lips, laughing_. He licked his lips and once more picked up the letter slowly, finding his place in the scribbled words. He should finish it at least. He owed his sister that much. Yet as he tried to focus, tried to read _, Maker please just let me_ , it would not stop. The voice, the sound, dear Andraste someone _make it stop...!_

It was far easier to find the small box containing his lyrium than it had been to find the extra candle. He knew his way to it like a child to its mother’s breast. His shaking fingers fumbled with the latch, cursing, and his panic grew until he prised open the wooden lid and picked up the ornate metal philter and unclasped the glowing blue vial and emptied it down his waiting throat.

Unmitigated and euphoric calm blossomed in his mind, curling tendrils of white, serene vacancy. Cullen refused to let the keen of ecstasy fall from his lips as the lyrium swept out into his system, pumped further with every beat of his heart. He found himself gasping, even as the shaking in his arms and hands ebbed and the voice, _that terrible laughter_ , grew distant. Dream like. After a few minutes he found himself at his desk once more with his face in his hands, _no longer in that terrible cage, no longer in the Circle, waiting for a death that would never come_.

He was free. He was free of it now. Never back there, not again. He was free now, he was...

When he opened his eyes he found the empty philter staring at him accusingly. Cullen blinked rapidly as he sat up, twisting his hands together. Free, the remnants of the lyrium seemed to sneer at him, _free?_ You’re no more free than the mages you guard. You’re pathetic, you _need_ it. You’ll always need it.

He left the letter unfinished on his desk and, after blowing out the second candle and picking up the first, he made his way to his small chambers; simply glad that his hand did not shake as he held the flame steady.

_You’ll always need it._

* * *

 

“Send the scouts out to see if the reports are in any way accurate, this isn’t something I want to slip by us. And make sure you do not lose sight of Valeria this time. The last thing I need is another search party, Harrit.”

“Yes, Captain,” the Scoutmaster saluted him sharply, “At once, sir.”

Cullen would have been happy to let the Scoutmaster leave his office, let him deal with the reports of darkspawn sightings on the Coast, and continue fishing through the reports and letters on his desk until he was too tired to read anymore. To let another day slip him by in bureaucracy and boredom. As it was, his luck was not to be so very generous. Both himself and Harrit looked up in surprise as a young templar, Cullen was sure it must Chevria from the tussle of red hair that poked out at the neck of her breastplate, burst through the half open door and gave him a messy salute. She was panting beneath her helmet.

“You can’t just barge in here!” Harrit barked out stoutly.

“Calm yourself, templar,” Cullen said sternly as he walked forwards, taking hold of Chevria’s arm to steady her as she removed her helm, revealing ruddy cheeks and bright eyes, “what is the meaning of this?”

“At the-the gate...sir,” she said, “I was sent up to find you, since the Knight Commander is indisposed. She said no one was to disturb her while she’s interrogating the prisoners.”

“Never mind that,” Cullen said tersely; he hated any mention of _interrogations_. Meredith didn’t keep him informed of results and he didn’t ask, “What’s at the gate? Start at the beginning. Here, sit down. Harrit?”

“Yes sir?”

“I need you down at the gate, at once. I need an accurate report.”

He was gone with a nod. Cullen turned to the young woman, now sitting in his chair and running her un-gauntleted hand across her sweat slicked hair, and crossed his arms.

“What is at the gates?”

“It’s...they’re demanding to get in, sir,” she said, looking a little bewildered.

“Who, Chevria?” he asked patiently.

“The Lords and Ladies, sir. And he’s leading them.”

“ _Who?_ ”

“The Champion, sir. He’s said he’s here to take his friend home. That they aren’t leaving without seeing Meredith.”

“To get his...” Cullen frowned, “but And-I mean the prisoner. He was already returned, his cell was empty...”

Cullen stopped as Harrit reappeared, his eyes serious and his face drawn.

“That was quick,” Cullen frowned.

“I didn’t need to make it to the gate, sir,” Harrit said, “they’re inside already. Bloody fools at the gate let them in, oh _what I’ll do to them_ once this is all over!”

“This is...” Cullen ran his hand over his face, sighing, “alright. Let’s not panic. Chevria, I need you down at the gates to secure the entrance. No one in or out without my permission, and I want that upheld as a direct order, understand?”

“Yes sir!” she stood up sharply, rushing out of the door still panting.

“Harrit, I need you to come with me.”

He was surprised he hadn’t heard it sooner, only his office was just as tucked away as his quarters were. As they left the barracks and made their way to the courtyard the sound of raised voices became more apparent and threateningly loud. Cullen shielded his eyes from the bright sun as they emerged from the gloom of the Gallows, and stared down into a courtyard usually grey and quiet, now emblazoned with the multitudinous colours of rich gowns and bright headdresses, thick furs and angry eyes.

And in the middle of it all, the unmistakable crimson red of the Champion, standing resolute in his impressive armour. Cullen turned as one of the templar’s on guard duty hurried up the steps, saluting with a loud thump across his chest.

“The gates are secure, Captain, and I apologise for...”

“I don’t want to hear your excuses, Walmont. There will be time enough later for reprimands. Right now I need you back at your post. No one in, no one out, until I give the order.”

“Yes, sir.”

He leaned over the balustrade as the templar hurried back down the stairs, his armour clanking in his haste, and cleared his throat.

“Hawke!” he called out, seeing the man’s sharp eyes look up and fix him with a dark stare; he descended the stairs hastily. When he reached the bottom Hawke was already waiting, “this is most irregular, I don’t understand why...”

“You know bloody well why I’m here,” Hawke said quietly, pulling Cullen to the side, away from the nobles still milling and arguing with the templars he’d place on guard, “you want this over with quick and quiet? Then hand him over!”

“And that’s where you lose me,” Cullen said, pulling his arm from the other man’s grasp, “as far as I understood it Anders was released three days ago. Meredith gave the order.”

“Do you _really_ think I’d be here if that were the case?” Hawke said incredulously, “I don’t need your tricks, Cullen, I just want him back in one piece. If not,” he said, waving lazily to gathered crowd, “then you can expect hell.”

“This is...”Cullen sighed; the headache he’d woken with was finally returning, “if I leave you will you stay here? Right here? I can speak with the Knight Commander, get this cleared up. I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding.”

“Call it whatever let’s you sleep at night,” Hawke said grimly, “and you don’t need to worry. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Harrit,” Cullen turned to the scoutmaster, still standing silently at his elbow, “look after the Champion. I don’t want anything untoward happening, understand? No drawn swords, no incidents. I’m going to speak to the Commander.”

Sometimes even he forgot how deeply the stairwells dug into the stone beneath the Gallows. He found himself trampling along stone hallways, down spiral stairs cases, until all hope of sunlight was utterly lost. He hated it down here, barely ever had a need to visit thankfully, but still when he did it was unpleasant. Not that he expected anything less of a place rife with fear and the incessant but subtle smell of blood.

It didn’t make any sense. Cullen had been given the report himself, he’d seen Anders’ release written out and signed and passed over his desk. Damn it all he’d inspected the cell himself! Empty, cold and dark. He clenched his teeth and walked smartly towards the interrogation chamber. His hand hesitated on the large sliding bar-lock as a swift yell broke the silence; it was just as swiftly silenced, leaving behind barely discernible gasps and whimpering pleas heard through the heavy wood. Cullen took a breath and unbarred the doorway, entering with purpose and pulling the door to behind him.

The smell was the first thing that struck him. The sounds were bad enough, the puffing of pained breath and the panting of exertion, from both prisoner and templar jailor alike; but the _smell_. It smelled like someone had been roasting pigs on a spit and the thought made him gag. He knew that smell, he _knew_ it because at the Circle tower...at the Circle tower some of mages had set the templar’s alight and the smell of burning flesh was uncomfortably easy to remember. He brought his hand to his mouth and covered it, balking.

He could not see the prisoner, not yet. The chair to which they were strapped faced away from him, only the twisting of pained fingers creeping over rough wooden arms visible. He looked around as Meredith stood from her perch by the door, quill in hand and empty sheet of vellum before her.

“Knight Captain, I gave orders that this interrogation not be disturbed,” Meredith snapped out authoritatively, “leave us.”

“Commander, the Champion is here. He is demanding the release of his friend, the mage Anders, but as I understood it he has already been released.”

“Then leave him beyond the gates to rail as he pleases,” Meredith said with little concern; Cullen was more than aware that she had not answered his unasked question.

“He is not alone, Commander. Many noble families of Kirkwall have accompanied him. They managed to breach the gates and are now inside, demanding an audience with you.”

“They _dare_..!” she said, eyes sharpening; she gestured to the two templars standing by the torture rack, watching their Commander intently, “You two, don’t just stand there. I want you up in the courtyard, and make sure no one wanders to places they shouldn’t be! And you,” she turned back to Cullen; he felt the full force of her stare and lowered his eyes, “How could you allow something like this to happen, Captain?”

“Forgive me, Commander,” he said, moving out of the way as the two templars made for the door, “I was not...”

His voice trailed off as he finally caught sight of the prisoner, his eyes widening. Cullen amazed himself as he actually _ignored_ the Knight Commander’s order to stay put, instead walking swiftly round the chair to look down at the man restrained there. His eyes widened in shock and the words left him as a harsh hiss.

“Oh sweet _Maker._ ”

It was on instinct that he reached out to touch the shoulder of the naked man, one of the few patches of skin he could see not blemished by burn or cut or bruise. Blood leaked from under his restraints, where skin was rubbed raw. His hair was thick with grease and sweat, his face a sunset of purples and yellows and greens, eyes and lips swollen, cheeks cut, nose seeming out of joint. The rivulets of blood from welts and cuts stood out starkly. From the overpowering smell he appeared to be sitting in his own filth, giving out a tart and hideous smell of faeces and urine. Of his body Cullen dared not look closer.

Anders it was, though not instantly recognisable as the man he’d once known. Thankfully he appeared unconscious. Cullen could barely stomach to look at him, never mind imagine talking to the man. Instead he turned his gaze to Meredith, knowing he was staring with unwise disgust.

“What is this?” he asked, incredulous, “I was told he was...he had been released! I saw the order myself, from _you_!”

“This was a necessary evil, Captain,” Meredith said, looking entirely unrepentant, “this man is suspected of being an abomination and of many further charges, including murder.”

“An abomination?” Cullen spat, “Are you mad? Have you ever seen a demon undergo such torture for days without _turning_?”

“Would you risk it, Captain?” she strode towards him, pointing directly at his breastplate; Cullen was glad for the few extra inches he had on Meredith, even if he could still feel the instinctual _duty_ pull at him, try and force his obedience, “Would you risk a murderous blood mage on your streets? He is guilty and I will be the one to take his confession!”

“His confession,” Cullen said, appalled, shaking his head as he glanced to the sheet of paper Meredith had been sitting beside, “is that it? I see you have very little to go on. He’s been here for what? Maker, it must be six days now. Nothing? He’s given you _nothing_ in all that time?”

“He is obstinate and treacherous.”

“Or perhaps there is nothing to give!”

“Watch your tongue, Captain!”

“I will _not_!” Cullen barked, making Meredith’s eyes narrow, “I will not stand by and allow this barbarism! This is not how we do things, Commander, these are not our laws!”

“And I thought you understood,” she said, looking disappointed, “I thought you of all people would know the danger of blood magic and the destruction it can wreak. I thought Uldred had taught you your lesson.”

He paled. He knew he did, because he could feel it in the faltering step he took backwards. _Uldred_. The figure of the demon of Pride swelled in his mind, it’s deep, guttural roar sending the hairs of his arms on end. Will you give in? it asked. Will you give in to your fear?

Meredith watched him as he straightened, his mouth set.

“If Uldred taught me one thing, Commander, it is that one wrong does not turn another wrong _right_. We managed to avoid the rite of annulment that night, just barely, and many innocent lives were saved. We chose the _right path_ then and I will be damned before Andraste herself if I stand here and let you chose the wrong one now.”

The clamour of footsteps. Chevria and another two templars from the gate guard appeared at the door, waiting to be acknowledged. Meredith simply stood and watched him, her eyes cold. Cullen did not falter. Eventually he turned to Chevria himself.

“Report.”

“Captain, the nobles are growing restless. They’re trying to taunt us into action. Some of the recruits are getting antsy, sir.”

“I suppose the Champion is encouraging this behaviour?” Meredith asked.

“Yes, Knight Commander. He has tried many times to push past our defences and enter the compound.”

“Then we stop this before it goes any further,” Cullen said sternly, “Chevria, I want this prisoner taken back to his cell, immediately. Clean him up and find something to cover him.”

There was a strict pause. Cullen looked at Meredith challengingly and Meredith merely peered back. Just as Cullen began to wonder how far he was willing to push this mutiny, she relented.

“You heard the Captain, templar, do as you are ordered!” she bellowed.

Chevria started badly, her nerves obviously frayed, but stepped quickly to her orders. She gestured the other two templars to help her and, as a unit, they managed to follow his orders without waking the unconscious mage. All the while Cullen could feel Meredith’s gaze upon him, cutting and biting into his pride, his sense of responsibility to the Order. No, he thought as he locked his gaze with her once more, _no_. This is not what we are, this is not what we stand for.

“I am going to inform Hawke of the release,” he said, leaving before she could change her mind.

Or before his confidence wavered.

When he found Hawke again the man seemed ready to start shedding blood. Truthfully he was not sure, as he pushed his way through the crowd towards the man, who was more threatening at that moment: Hawke or Meredith. It wasn’t much of a choice.

“Hawke, please, calm yourself,” Cullen said, wincing as the Champion pivoted effortlessly and caught him with a stare and three heavy words.

“You have him?”

“Yes,” Cullen said, carrying on quickly before the man had a chance to but in, “but I don’t think...”

“Don’t play with me, Knight Captain,” Hawke said dangerously.

“Where is Anders?” Cullen looked to his right, finding young Helena De Launcet gripping his arm, her eyes imploring, “Knight Captain, you must let him go, he is an innocent!”

“Please, madam, I...”

“Are you in charge here?” Cullen looked to his left, finding Lord Raunde Krayven staring arrogantly down his nose at him, “I demand an audience with the Knight Commander. This insult will not be tolerated!”

Maker’s breath, Cullen thought, this is why I never deal with the nobility. He felt absurdly out of his depth as suddenly the crowd began to converge on him as the commotion spread. Before he lost sight of Hawke altogether he grabbed for the man’s arm, pulling him close. Hawke tried to pull away but Cullen held him in an iron grip and put his lips by Hawke’s ear.

“You don’t want him brought out through all these people,” he said bluntly.

“I...” Cullen could feel the hesitation in Hawke’s body, glad he could no longer see the man’s eyes, “I want him back, right now.”

“I promise he will be released, he _is_ released. But let me bring him to you. It will be dark soon, I will have my men bring him to the Amell estate.”

“Why should I?” Hawke bit out, “Why shouldn’t they see what you’ve _done_ to him!”

“Because I do not think it is what Anders would want,” Cullen said truthfully; he tried to remember the proud, arrogant young man he’d known in his youth, “I implore you, Hawke. I will escort him personally, I swear it.”

“On your life, Cullen,” Hawke jerked away from him, his eyes a stark contrast to the dark anger he had seen before. Now they were pleading, anxious, “ _Swear_ it!”

“I swear it, upon my life,” Cullen nodded sharply.

When Hawke nodded in return, Cullen felt a weight leave his shoulders. There was something vilifying in having Hawke’s trust. It was nice to know he could still be taken for a man of his word.

Which was more than he could say for his Knight Commander.

* * *

 

_Callum_

“You left him there again!?”

Callum felt as if he would spontaneously combust on the spot from the mixture of sheer disbelief and fury. That Hawke had come home empty handed once was farcical, twice was just negligence as far as he was concerned. They stood in the airy entrance hall and set about drawing everyone from their room with the rukus.

“I don’t _need_ this from you right now!” Hawke shouted in reply.

“You don’t need this, what in the flying fuck is that supposed to mean?” Callum yelled, grabbing fistfuls of rich material, feeling heavy buckles digging into his palms.

“It means shut your Maker damned mouth!” Hawke spat, eyes black as coal.

“What’s going on?” Callum heard the Starkhaven prince’s voice from the balcony.

“None of your fucking business!” he shouted back.

“Is there a problem?” Fenris’s voice, heavy with sleep, "What's happening?"

“Hey, what’s all the commotion?” Varric’s voice joined him, “Did you get him, Hawke..?”

“They got him?” Merrill, sounding beside herself.

“Of course they did, sweetie, don’t fret your pretty head,” Isabella, cooing.

“Will you all please just shut up..!" Hawke bellowed.

It was lucky, perhaps for them both, or even _all_ of them, that the knocking began then. Well, Callum thought as his heart leapt, not knocking so much as thumping. They stalled; not the front door, too far off, too echoing. Hawke barely spared him a moment before he jerked himself free of Callum’s grasp and ran for the kitchens.

“Back door,” he hissed out, shouting up to the balcony of concerned faces, “you lot stay there! And you,” Callum looked down to see Hawke staring at him, “what are you waiting for?”

What was he waiting for? That was a damn fool question, as far as he was concerned. He was waiting for the one thing he hadn’t been able to stop thinking of since this torturous week began. The one thing that he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about since he had run into the man in Cumberland on that cold, stormy afternoon. The one thing he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about since he had first seen Anders’ smiling face through the window as Callum hid outside, watching.

The one thing he had now been granted, by the grace of the Maker and his holy bride, as a troop of templars stood incongruously in the back alley behind the Amell estate with a suspicious, cloaked figure propped between their arms.

“Cullen,” Hawke said blankly, barely nodding.

“Hawke,” the man replied; wait, Callum thought, _Cullen_? The Knight Captain of Kirkwall? “You’d better take him inside.”

Callum didn’t have to be told twice. He stepped forwards when the templars made to enter and lifted his hands. The Knight Captain stalled for a moment before nodding his assent. Callum felt relief digging into his arms as the solid weight of a living body was deposited there. He could feel the rise and fall of a chest against his own. It was all he could do not to stand there, holding the cloth and flesh to him and just _feeling_ ; he took a deep breath and swiftly lifted the man into his arms. It was as he turned and hurried inside that he heard Hawke’s quiet words.

“Cullen. I... _Thank you_.”


	16. Turngate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this has been a long time coming! Apologies in advance for this taking such a long time to get back to. I hope it was worth the wait. I've had a chance to really think about where this story is going, so sorry if this chapter creates more questions than answers! I have been thinking a lot about the fact that Anders, at this point, basically has a version of himelf in Vengeance in the Fade, as well as his physical body in the real world, and whether that would give him rare abilities not seen for millenium...  
> I hope anyone who is still reading enjoys, and hopefully I can get this story back on track!

Stories are gateways. From a young age he had known this; relied upon it. Sometimes gateways to sadness, sometimes to happiness, sometimes to fright or excitement.

Sometimes to the truth.

When he was a child Anders remembered the best of the stories for himself. The ones that made him feel safe and strong. The ones his mother told to him. Alone and afraid in the Circle tower, his childish hands scratching out a map with a snag of charcoal he’d stolen from the fireplace, _a map back home_ , he kept those stories safe and tight and close and believed, and believed, _and believed._

_Beautiful princesses and mighty mages, fighting dragons on scorched earth, falling in love and being happy ever after._

Her stories taught him not to be afraid of what he was. In her stories, the hero never doubted themselves. Walking the corridors of the Ferelden Circle he found his eyes always drawn to the windows; _what was happening beyond those walls, upon those far hills, where his feet could tread if only he could be free?_ Instead, he contented himself with the myriad of books in the library, in whose pages he had drifted, until the pull was too strong and he'd fled, time and time again, trying to impose his own story upon the land.

“Hello?”

In those stories the heroes were strong, commanded armies, fought villains single handed.

“Is there...is there anyone?”

In those stories, they were never afraid, because they knew the ending.

“Maker please. I don’t know...where I am.”

Anders wished he knew his. Right now, he felt as if he may be close to it, and yet still he was alive. The ground beneath him was rocky, jagged, but instead of cold and wet it was warm to the touch. Not like the smooth, chill stone of his cell. Nothing like that. And then, when he’d looked up...

“Please. Someone.”

It was then that he’d realised it was not his voice that spoke. _His mind still reeled and he was not sure of anything; dazed, hurt_. He tried to take in his reality one step at a time.

The landscape around him was vast and dark. The ground was only just visible, in contrast to the horizon where a pale, sickly orange light glowed. The sky above was pitch. There were no stars. There were no clouds. Just the orange, sickly light. Just the outline of the ragged rock. There was a dread feeling in the air, heavy and oppressive. It made him want to curl up against the warm, sharp rock and close his eyes.

 _Am I sleeping?_ He tried to convince himself desperately.

“Anybody?” the voice pleaded, choked with sobs, “ _Please?_ ”

And yet the pain in his legs and his arms as he pushed himself upwards was too real to be a dream. Standing was difficult. _Should I be awake?_ Anders asked himself. Then he realised, _should I be here at all? Where is this, where am I? Where was I before?_ The perspective shifted and he thought he could remember...

... _the water rushing into his lungs, deep and choking and terrifying and then he was pulled up, hand fisted in his hair and the voice shouted in his ear “_ Tell us the truth. Confess and you will go to the Maker pure. Confess!” _and his own voice, begging, begging dear Maker please, and then the water, again it rushed up as it swallowed his face and his mouth and his nose and he screamed and screamed until..._

...he caught himself as his breathing became frighteningly precious. Anders closed his eyes and lifted his hands up towards his face. It was too dark, he could barely see them. They seemed different. When he looked down he could just make out the contours of his body, naked in the glow. It was then he realised he was shaking. His legs hurt. His back ached. He thought there might be blood, but it was so dark.

So dark here.

“H-hello,” he managed, voice thick with a rough edge; he cleared his throat but the action made him wince; it was like swallowing glass. He tried again, “Hello?”

“S-someone? Hello? Is that someone there?”

“I’m here,” he said, finally taking in, as his head began to clear, that he had no idea where _here_ was, “I’m right here.”

“Keep talking. Please, I’ll follow your voice.”

“Alright,” he said, his voice breaking; he huddled his arms around his body and tried strain his eyes in the gloom, “I’m here. Right here. Can you come to me? I-I don’t think I can walk.”

“I’m coming. Just wait,” the voice sounded closer, “I’m coming.”

“I’m here,” he said; beneath his feet the rock seemed to pulse, “I’m here.”

 _Boom, boom, boom._ The ground seemed to vibrate with it, a sound as if from far off. Anders tried to gauge where the voice was coming from. There was a shuffling of feet. The thought of someone else, anyone else, being close was a relief he wasn’t proud of. This place felt wrong, so very wrong.

_How did I get here?_

“Am I close?” it asked.

“Here. Yes. I’m just here.”

“Thank the Maker,” the voice was laughing in its sob, “I thought I’d never fi _._..”

And the voice stopped with a sound that made him recoil. _A wet snap._ The smell was the first thing that hit him. The stench. Something rotten and foul. And the air, the air moved with the feeling of something large, something huge in the darkness rushing past him. Anders staggered backwards and fell with a choked cry, landing hard against the rocks. The pain was hideous, _something sharp had gone through the skin_ , and there was blood. He could smell blood. He choked out a sob, trying to lift himself from the sharp rocks, crawling, his stomach turning, trying to look up and see the owner of the voice.

And then he turned and saw. The thing, the towering thing there. A mass in the darkness, its form misshapen yet familiar, catching the sickly orange light like a mirror. In its great mouth there was a body, some sort of body, black with blood, broken and hanging like a child’s doll. And behind them both, caught in the silhouette of the hideous sky, stood a great city, towers screaming into the depths, coiling and rigid as a stone snake, glistening in the low light like the sheen on wet bone.

A great, black city stood before him.

He would have screamed, had he not suddenly remembered just _how he got there_ , as if the thought were not truly his own. As if he were being told a story, a fairytale from a long, long time ago. As if a voice had whispered to him how to…

…remember the way back home.

* * *

 

There was juniper on the air. He could smell it, and he knew it because it was a sharp smell that made him think of the drink Varric like to import to the Hanged Man. Antivan juniper wine. It was sweet, but with a bitter tang that made your mouth twist even as you enjoyed it. A scent that made him think of laughter.

Opening his eyes proved difficult. One felt like a rolling door, as if it were on hinges. The other was swollen shut, he could tell. Had felt it before. _A particularly gruesome barfight over a game of wicked grace, in a pub not far from the Circle during his third escape attempt. A black eye as big as the fist that had made it in the first place._ Yet from the limited view he had from the one he could prise open, he saw where he was and he knew it.

The garden. His garden. At home. He was home. _He was home_.

It was raining, and he was lying on the cold stone of the garden walkway. In the corner of his vision he could see the blackened tip of the burnt tree. Smell the heavy scent of the soil. Sitting up was awkward, which he began to remember why as he looked at his right arm, bandaged and dressed. It felt tight and constricted and gave off a continuous, dull ache. The smell of elfroot and dragonthorn became distinct, a familiar balm he used to stop infection. _Broken, he remembered it was broken. They had broken it, and his fingers. Just on his right arm._ Looking up again gave him a narrow view of a pale, grey sky.

Laughter. At first he didn’t realise where it was coming from. And then he did. It was his own. Laughing. He was laughing, even as it shook his shattered body. Laughing because he knew he was alive. Laughing because he knew now that he could understand everything that had been a mystery.

“ _Anders!_ ”

Turning to look to his left was difficult but that voice demanded to be seen. It had been only days, surely, he was sure it must have been only days since he had last seen him and yet time had been spun thin and stretched and seemed immeasurable. Another lifetime, that’s how it felt, another lifetime since they had last been together.

“Hawke,” Anders said, his gravelly voice thick with relief, “Maker it’s really you.”

And it was, Garret Hawke dressed in clothes that looked as if he may have been wearing them for weeks, his beard longer than he remembered, his eyes bright and his face taught. He rushed into the courtyard and dropped to his knees by him, hands coming up to take hold of Anders’ face and turn it gently side to side.

“Are you hurt? Tell me what’s wrong. How did you get out here? I thought I’d lost you again,” he said, voice thick with anger and fear, “I left you in the bedroom and then that fool Callum starts shouting that you’re gone and...Anders, for the love of the Maker, tell me how you got _out here_!”

Lifting his hands was a challenge, but Anders could bear the pain if it was to hold him. It didn’t take much for Hawke to lean in, gathering him close and letting out a soft sound of frustrated distress.

“You fool, you bloody fool. Don’t leave me again,” Hawke was muttering against his ear as Anders closed his eye and drank in the gentle touch, “You understand? Don’t ever leave me again.”

* * *

 

“It’s not an easy thing to explain.”

That was how he started, once he had been changed into new, dry clothes and Hawke had insisted that he eat something, _some weak soup Orana had concocted, delivered by the teary elf who had taken one look at Anders and had to leave with a sob_. He’d complied to Hawke’s every demand because, little that he could see of the world, he could hear the distress in Hawke’s voice and he knew that allowing the man his control was the best way to say he was sorry.

And Callum. Callum was there, sitting off to his right on the chair by the bed while Hawke fussed and made Anders lie down and propped him up with goose-down pillows. He was quiet but Anders could tell he was not angry. Not truly, even if he was staring at him rather harshly.

So he had talked, because it seemed to be what both men wanted, even if neither would say so.

“Firstly...” Anders cleared his throat and winced; a moment later Hawke was beside him with a mug, helping him drink, _honey and water and mint_ , “thank you,” he said as Hawke sat down next to him on the bed, “I...please, I want to say I’m sorry.”

“You don’t get to say that,” Callum finally spoke up, his voice heavy.

“Shut your mouth or I’ll shut it for you...” Hawke started fiercely, standing to confront Callum.

“ _No_!” Anders said, as loud as he could manage; Hawke stopped, standing between Callum and Anders like a wall, “No it’s...it’s alright Hawke.”

“To the Black it’s alright...”

“I was selfish.”

“What?” Hawke turned, looking at him.

“I was selfish,” Anders said again, taking a deep breath and feeling his chest protest at the action; he let the breath out and bit down on the pain, “and I’m sorry. To both of you.”

There would have been silence if the crackling fire in the grate hadn’t decided to spark wildly as a small twig tumbled down into the glowing coals. Callum was staring at him intently. Anders felt as if...as if there was nothing he could say that he would regret. Because everything that had happened since he’d walked through those doors with his templar guards had been a decent into hell.

And somehow, _somehow_ , he’d returned. Returned to both of them, and he would be damned to the Black now if he was going to let his pride stand in the way of that.

“You can shout at me if that’s what you want. You can damn me. You can even leave if...if that’s what you want,” Anders looked up at Callum as he spoke, making the tall man look away, eyes bright and glassy, “but just don’t throw any punches please. My body isn’t up to that right now.”

His joke fell flat and Anders wished he could make things right, but so many things were wrong. So many, many things.

“No one’s throwing anything,” Hawke said abruptly, hands on his hips, “just...I...” he sighed, head hanging down. When he took the few steps to the bed and sat down heavily Anders wished he was able to be as he once was.

To think of nothing but the happiness of those he loved, think of nothing else but the injustice of the mages, think of nothing else but the burden of the coming war.

Instead…

Instead he let Hawke speak, because the man seemed to be on the edge of causing bodily harm to someone and Anders guessed that if Hawke wouldn’t punch him then it would be Callum since he was the only other person in the room. Anders kept his mouth shut.

“A lot has happened, since when you left,” Hawke started softly, seeming to struggle for the words to describe what he had seen, “I mean…before you woke up.”

“Before?” Anders frowned.

“You didn’t tell him?” Callum asked, dark eyes watching him closely.

“It wasn’t first on my fucking list, no,” Hawke bit out.

“Tell me what?” Anders asked, trying to hide his desperation.

“You’ve been out cold for three days,” Hawke said, worry evident in his voice, “ever since Cullen brought you back here you’ve been unconscious.”

“Unconscious,” Anders repeated softly.

“I couldn’t even tell why,” Callum shrugged, sitting forwards and clasping his hands, wringing his fingers “you just wouldn’t wake up. I tried everything I could but...nothing. It’s like...”

Anders saw Hawke shiver and knew why it must have been, even if he almost wasn’t able to believe it. _And also what it must have been like, his body lifeless but alive, just as he had been in Weisshaupt._ He closed his eyes and wished he wasn’t such a fool. He wished he didn’t have a purpose. He wished he’d never...

“I wasn’t here, I was _there_...” Anders said without thinking, stopping only when he realised how mad that sounded; Hawke and Callum were watching him, wearing matching frowns; it seemed to hit him then, how little he’d regarded anything but his own mad struggle. To be watched with such intensity by the two people he loved the most in the world, it was difficult to bear.

“it’s a long story,” he finally managed to say

“Then maybe you should start from the top,” Hawke said simply.

And then he reached over and took Anders’ left hand gently, the soft touch of his calloused hand enough to make Anders realise what he was going to have to tell. His own memories, mixed with those of another, mixed again into a vast pool of arcane knowledge so incredible that he still could not comprehend it.

“Honestly,” Anders said, shaking his head, “I don’t think the top is that important. Best I start at the bottom.”

* * *

 

It had all started with the Band of Three.

Truthfully, Anders had encountered the name even before the mysterious letters had begun arriving at his home, delivered by Callum unbeknownst to him, with the script inside of the Band of Three’s exploits. Anders had first heard the name from Sabine one night when they’d been waiting on the Wounded Coast for a ship to arrive.

It had been dark, it was winter and before dawn, and they had sat together on the sand huddled for warmth. He had been telling some fool story about an exploit of his, something or other about an escape from the tower which he was having fun embellishing with half truths and outright fabrications, when Sabine had laughed so hard she had choked and said,

“Oh my, sounds like something the Band of Three would do!”

“The band of what?” he’d replied, a little put out by having his story interrupted.

“You’ve never heard of them? Why Anders, I’m disappointed. A young maverick mage such as yourself ought to know of other mavericks, shouldn’t he?”

It hadn’t truly stuck, even when Sabine told him the tale. More of a rumour, really. A tale of three mage scholars who had sought out Kirkwall to learn it’s hidden knowledge and had fallen to the power of what they found there. Nothing new, and nothing he’d particularly cared for at the time. In fact, when he started receiving the letters with the Band of Three’s exploits contained within, he almost forgot that Sabine had ever told him the tale. He only remembered when he’d begun researching the letters when the words had itched at him, _bit_ at him.

He’d had to know. Such words had not been written lightly, and by people whom he felt some strange connection to. So he had done what he felt he had at least been trained his entire life to do: study and research. Books upon books, stolen from libraries around Kirkwall, and some sourced from further houses of knowledge when the chance had been given. And then the magister’s son had fallen into the mix, during the attack that changed the tide of far more than just Kirkwall’s destiny. Tebrius, Danarius’ son, had brought with him a disgust for his father and his father’s beliefs, and yet…

How wrong he had been. How wrong they had been. How wrong everyone was. His mind reeled with the thought of it. _Everything had changed. Everything was different now. How was he to understand? How was he to tell others?_

The Band of Three. When he thought of them they seemed so insignificant now. And yet he had followed them, down into the pits of the Black. Those three who had sought to harness the power of the ancient Magisters, who had understood that Kirkwall had not been a city at all, not truly. The three who had finally found out the truth.

“Kirkwall…is a portal?”

Hawke sounded confused, dubious and curious all at once. Anders drank while he let them absorb the information. _Considering it’s the least insane thing I have to tell them I might as well let them enjoy it,_ Anders thought.

“It’s not so important that it _is_ a portal,” Anders elaborated, clearing his throat, “so much that it was designed in great detail to be a portal. Have you ever looked at a map of Kirkwall? I mean in detail.”

“I only own one,” Hawke admitted, “one of Worthy’s contacts in the cartographer’s guild had one made for me. But what would a map show?”

“Bring it to me?” Anders asked softly.

While Hawke left to fetch it, Callum stayed. There was silence. Anders licked his lips. _What do I say to you?_ he thought. There was so much left between them that was unsaid, it seemed as if there was a vast abyss separating them. And yet when Anders finally opened his mouth and said,

“When I told you I was sorry, I meant it Callum. Truly, I am. And if you still want to leave then…”

It was cut off with a swift hand at the side of his face and a kiss against his lips. Soft, warm and gentle, _enough that he felt no need to move away from a sensation so pure in its intentions._ Soft fingers stroked his neck, warm breath puffed against his face. When the kiss finally ended Anders felt himself try and follow those retreating lips. When he opened his eyes, it was only then that he realised he had closed them at all.

“Bloody fool,” Callum was saying, standing up and scratching at his face, “you’re a bloody, fucking fool and I hate you.”

“Suppose I was asking for that,” Anders said with a sigh, “but you have to understand, this isn’t just about us anymore. The things that have happened, Callum…Maker, I don’t even know how to explain. Not so that you’ll believe me. After what happened...”

_Because the oil slithered across his skin like a warm, wet heat. Nothing compared to the heat that came after. A singing in the air like a high note, and it would take a while to realise that it was his voice, screaming as the oil was ignited. The straps barely held him down, grating at his bound flesh as he tried desperately to free himself. It was then that he perhaps saw the first signs of doubt in the templar's actions, in their eyes._

_But not in Meredith's._

The sound of approaching footsteps had Callum sit strictly back in his chair, lips sealed once more, and pulled Anders back to the present. Anders sighed, shaking his head, as Hawke rushed into the room with a scroll he was eagerly unrolling in his hands.

“It’s a bloody mess in that library,” he was saying, “I’ll have to go though it one of these days. Here, love, is this any use?”

And as Hawke laid the map out upon the bedcovers, and Callum looked at it as if nothing could ever make the world be what he needed it to be, Anders knew that there would always be this. There would always be part of him that loved them more than he could ever express, and that would be important, so important to remember. He would have to remember it, remind himself every day of what that meant so that his humanity was not lost. After everything that had happened.

Because everything was so much bigger than he was now, so much more important, so much more dangerous. The idea of what the world was now and what it had once been were so disspirate that is hurt to think of. That the true nature of the Fade had elluded them all. Of what Justice truly was, and what he had made Anders into.  
  
When he reached out his hand and felt the power there build it was as if he could feel the Fade around him. Feel it seeping through the Veil as if desperate to touch him, as if he were summoning it willingly. And the blue light appeared at his fingertips first as if he were drawing lines upon the air itself, shimmering, powerful. Then the lines began to fall, drifting down onto the paper like eager snakes, shifting to place themselves where commanded, along streets and around houses, along canals and even through the great harbour; Kirkwall lit up in a blaze of magic so pure that Anders thought he could feel it humming in his veins.

“Maker…Anders _what_..?” he heard Callum saying in a horse whisper; when Anders looked to his right he found Callum out of his chair, standing wide eyed. Hawke stood by him with a look of fear that Anders tried to ignore.

“Tell him, Callum,” Anders ordered, making the man flinch, “tell him what it is.”

“What’s happening?” Hawke asked as if he were asking the gods themselves to explain, and not the two men in the room at all, “Please, what _is_ that?”

“It’s a…in the Circle they taught us how to bind spirits and…” Callum shook his head and faltered on his feet, “Anders please, stop. This is wrong, you can’t!”

“Tell him what it is!” Anders barked.

And he could feel it, building around him, the Veil wavering like a silken sheet in a breeze. The sound of distant shores lapping, of ethereal winds whistling through ancient ruins of knowledge and time. Around them all, in that bedroom on the second floor, the Fade danced like the northern lights above the Anderfells, shimmering and cascading.

And on the map that lay upon the covers Callum pointed a shaking finger, now showing the outlines of glyphs written into the shape of the streets themselves, into winding alleyways and market plazas. There the magic that flowed from Anders outlined a spell long lost to the mists of the slave uprising of Tevinter and the Magisters’ march to reclaim Kirkwall.

“It’s a…it can’t be.”

“What? For the love of the Maker someone please tell me what is happening?” Hawke pleaded.

“A bridge,” Anders said, finally running out of patience, “you see it don’t you?” he said to Callum, the tall man flinching, “a bridge. A portal. Whatever you wish to call it. Kirkwall,” Anders said, knowing that his eyes flashed with the light of the Fade as he spoke to them both, “is a rift just waiting to happen.”

Anders allowed the power to stem, creating a wobbling effect in the shimmering world around them, and then eventually it turned to a mist, then a haze and then, suddenly, it was gone. When he looked back to the men beside his bed, Anders was greeted by pale faces and a fear that stemmed from the unknown and the forbidden.

“Andraste save us,” Callum said hoarsely, “Anders what have you _done_?”

“Not me, my friend,” Anders replied, letting out a long breath, “another long before my time. I have simply inherited this power. The only difference?” he said, looking to his left hand and watching the ancient magic there spark, “I can make it work.”

* * *

 

Rufus Barnaby. Before Anders had made his foolish pledge to brave Meredith’s dungeons, that had been all he had. A name, and an idea of what that name represented. The Band of Three had used code names, ones that tried their best to hide the identities of those mages who had been seduced by the power that the ancient Magisters had built in Kirkwall.

However, it seemed that on closer inspection of the Band of Three’s notes and reports, that not all of them had been so keen to learn this power. In fact, Rufus Barnaby, scholar and master of the creation school of magic, had not only dismissed the power but had hoped to stop his colleagues from gaining it. One of the Three had died in an attempt, and the last note Barnaby had left was more of a last will and testament:  
  
_We went to the centre of it all. F. is dead and I am alone and injured. I must go back and put an end to it. The maddening thing is there is still no answer. But the Forgotten One, or demon or whatever it is, must be destroyed. I fear one may already be unbound._

_I foreswear my oaths. The magister's lore must be burned and the ashes scattered. No good can come of it. And Maker help us if someone does answer what we could not._

The irony was not lost on Anders, now that he knew exactly what had happened at that alter, deep below the streets where nobles walked and merchants hawked their wares.

“Sit down,” Anders said to them both, “please.”

When Callum opened his mouth, Anders beat him to the punch.

“ _Please_ , I will explain.”

There was a long silence, in which both men seemed stuck between shouting and staying quiet. Eventually, once the suddenness of their fear seemed to have grown thin, they sat slowly down, as if afraid to make any sudden movements.

“I never told you the real reason that I gave in to Meredith’s request, did I?” Anders started; Hawke looked alert, and Callum wary, “in truth part of me wished to…atone. I have done so many things that have caused so much pain, and there is only so long that I can justify it with the pain of my brothers and sisters. Still…that was but a biproduct of something larger. Something far larger than even I understood at first.

“Varric helped me track down a man that I thought might be able to give me some answers.”

“Answers for what?” Callum asked seriously.

“Many things,” Anders answered as he sorted the bedclothes before rubbing at his nose; the sunlight was calming, yet it stung his eyes, and he pulled one of the bedcurtains across a little further, “I needed to know what had happened to Justice, Vengeance, whatever you would wish to name him as. Such names seem trivial now…still. I needed to know the nature of what I had done in making my pact with my friend, and in all the ways I have changed the nature of the Fade and the Real. I thought that Barnaby might have the answers, considering what happened to the Band of Three.”

“But,” Callum shook his head, letting out a cynical laugh that was tinged with hysteria, “that’s ridiculous. The stories of the Band of Three are legend! They happened over a hundred years ago!”

“I am aware,” Anders answered, “and yet when I was in my cell in the Gallows, I heard a knocking. At first I thought it was just some poor wretch asking for water, but it continued. It didn’t stop. The more I listened, the more I realised. It was consistent pattern, repeated over and over again. At that point it was all I had, and I thought that anyone able to repeat such a complex pattern over and over had surely been in their cell long enough to memorise it. I thought that if it wasn’t Barnaby, then maybe at least they could help me find him.”

“But your cell,” Hawke said, his face still tight with worry, “how did you get out?”

“Oh, well,” Anders said, laughing a little hysterically; he could now at least sympathise with Callum in that, when he thought about it, he realised how truly mad his situation was, “perhaps it’s best to show you. Could you hand me that cup?”

At the very least Callum didn’t seem wary when handing over the ornate mug, which Anders was grateful for. The last thing he wanted was to be feared. With the mug placed on his lap, Anders pooled the magic once more within his palm. He could feel it stretching out across his fingers, like spindles that he spun from, weaving an intricate pattern of pale blue light around the mug. Once he was done Anders embellished the circular symbol, glyph like in pattern, with a single sigil at its top. It was an odd feeling, as if another were working his fingers, creating a language he could not yet comprehend.

Then he closed his eyes, held his breath and curled his fingers into a tight fist. There was a sound of fizzing on the air, brief like a fly's wings, and the smell of metallic tang on the air, not unlike lyrium. When he opened his eyes the mug was gone, and to his right Hawke had jumped out of his chair, the mug clattering to the floor.

“Andraste’s flaming tits! It fell on my lap! What the Maker blasted black are you doing? What trick is this!?”

“No trick,” Anders said as Callum, wide eyed, picked up the mug cautiously; Anders heard the man gasp, “sometimes the object seems to retain some of the magic within itself for a short time. I suppose it flows through it in order to travel.”

“I can feel it,” Callum said softly, “it’s warm. Wait,” he frowned, looking to Anders in amazement, “travel where?”

“You asked how I got out of my cell,” Anders shrugged, “and Hawke earlier you asked how I got outside into the garden. It’s simple…well alright it’s not simple, but it’s easy to explain,” Anders licked his lips and started at them both, a giddy feeling of frenzy clinging to his mind as he said, “I walked through the Fade.”

Silence. A bird began singing in the courtyard. Hawke was frowning and Callum hadn’t moved nor shown any reaction at all. Then it started, a soft low laughter that seemed to shake Callum’s shoulders, then as it grew it moved to his chest, puffing it out as the laughter grew raucous and relieved.

“Ah you mad bastard, you had me going!” Callum almost shouted, “You prick, I should have known you were having me on from the start! For fuck’s sake Anders, the least you could do is tell us the truth. We were worried sick while you were gone!”

“A joke? You know I’m starting to think this is all an elaborate dream,” Hawke said, looking confused but reassured, “am I dreaming? I suppose anything can happen in a dream. Anders, wait, don’t get up you’re hurt..!”

And yet neither had the time to stop him as he set the glowing glyph onto the floor to his right, put his feet over the side of the bed and stepped onto it.

The world ceased to be. Then it became something different. _A large, ethereal palatial structure, broken and ruined, floating in a white mass like bright sun through too much fog. There was a sound of a woman’s voice, light and floating, asking him in something that sounded like elvish, but so far from anything he understood that it was a mystery,_

_“Viran se lan'aan? Ir annala for ros...”_

And then the world was dull again, the smell of the fire rushed back like a gusting wind, the warmth of the air became real, the sound of clattering chairs was loud and abrasive. It was as Anders realised all of this that he also realised he really could not stand without aid. He wobbled on weary legs and bruised and burned feet, before tumbling to the ground in a heap of limbs and pain.

“Fuck me!” he heard Callum shouting from another room.

“Anders? Anders, where are you?” he heard Hawke calling, the sound of footsteps coming closer; as Anders looked up he realised where he was. In Hawke’s mother’s room. It was still as he had seen it last, tended for as if the woman still lived and was expected back at any moment. The fire was roaring, and there were flowers in the vase on Leandra’s writing desk. For a moment Anders felt a profound sadness, as if the room itself did not house a dead woman’s possessions so much as it housed her bereft son’s pain.

“In here,” he shouted as he struggled to sit up, “I’m in here.”

The door burst open and Hawke rushed in, seeming to hesitate only a second or so before striding to Anders' side and helping him up.

“Tell me,” Hawke was babbling, “tell me what happened? Tell me, Anders. Tell me, please, I don’t know what’s happening. This is mad! None of this makes sense. Father told me no one has walked in the Fade for over a thousand years, no one does, it isn’t something that…”

As he was lowered onto the bed, Anders managed to stay sitting upright even though it hurt him greatly to do so. The still healing lash marks on his back itched and pulled, causing lancing agony in the deep wounds. Letting out a soft glow of healing magic took the edge off at least. Hawke was still talking away to himself when Anders looked up, catching the eye of Callum who was standing in the doorway as if terrified to enter.

“It isn’t true,” was all Callum seemed able to say.

“I thought so to,” Anders said wearily, “I suppose I thought a lot of things before all of this. None of them matter now.”

“Like fuck they don’t,” Callum said, the hurt in his voice evident; Hawke stopped talking and blinked, as if coming down from shock, “tell me how you do it. You’re tricking us. Maker, are you even Anders _at all?_ What if you’re a demon, sent to deceive us!”

“You know that isn’t true,” Anders sighed, shaking his head, “you _know_ who I am. You know you would feel it if I were a demon.”

“And if you were possessed? There are no signs of possession until the demon manifests,” Hawke said sternly.

“I should have known you wouldn’t understand,” Anders shook his head, feeling a little giddy, “Maker, I barely do now. If only Barnaby had been able to tell me, but then perhaps even he did not understand what he had unleashed.”

“Then you _found_ him?” Hawke asked, shocked, “He was alive?”

“Alive,” Anders said softly, as if to himself, “such a relative term. Yes he was alive, barely. Poor wretch was more a skeleton draped in skin. Truthfully I would have taken him for a wraith or a body raised from the dead. When I stumbled into that cell I remember I fell across his legs and, Maker…” Anders closed his eyes and grimaced, “I felt his skin beneath my arms. It felt like paper, fragile and dry as if he had been buried and left to rot.

“Until now I was only able to create short pathways, using the same paths that spirits use to cross the Fade. That was all the book was able to teach me.”

“Book?” Callum asked, frowning.

“The _Fjandi_ , _”_ Anders admitted, “I was able to translate enough. There were explanations of how spirits can travel between realms.”

“Then you mean demons!” Callum flared, “This is how you fool us? With demon magic? Maker, tell me this is lies Anders!”

“Not lies. Lies, truths, demons, spirits. None of it matters, don’t you understand? Barnaby, he showed me. He showed me what they found!”

“What in Thedas could he have told you to have you spouting such nonsense?” Hawke asked.

“He didn’t tell me anything,” Anders said acidly, “because he had no tongue. Just a gaping mouth, a maw. When he took my head in his hands I felt as if he knew me, had been _waiting_ for me! And I knew then that I had been sent to find him, I was _meant_ to learn this magic. When I awoke from my death and I could not speak, could I? Do you think that was a coincidence? No! I was being given a sign, I was being shown the way forwards!”

“Shut up! Just shut your mouth!” Callum shouted in return, “This is madness!”

“Anders please,” Hawke pleaded, “you’re not well. You’ve been though a lot, you just need some rest and…”

“Been through a lot?” Anders spat, silencing them both, “Been through a lot. Do you mean the fracture in my arm and the broken fingers on my hand that I can feel grinding whenever I move? The lashes on my back that cut into the muscle? The burns on my skin where they dripped the oil and then set it alight? The fists that marred my skin and the relentless, cruel words that were shed across me. The humiliation and the pain that came from those who knew no better, and _this_ is how I am treated by those I trust? They tortured me until I begged them to kill me,” Anders gasped out, feeling breathless, “but they wouldn’t. They wouldn’t.”

“Please, love,” Hawke said, his face falling as he quickly sat next to the shaking mage, pulling Anders into his arms, “you’re safe now.”

“None of us are safe,” Anders sobbed, “don’t either of you understand?”

“You can’t trust him, Hawke!” Callum shouted, moving forwards, “What if..?”

“Not another step,” Hawke said, his tone deadly and cold.

“Are you insane? After everything he’s told you? If it’s true…Maker if it’s true then he’s perverting the ways that mages have held sacred since the first Blight! You know what this means!”

“I know that Anders needs rest, time to heal. You believe whatever you want Crummock, I need to help him.”

“You saw it with your own eyes!” Callum yelled.

“I don’t know what I saw!” Hawke shouted back, “Now if you aren’t going to help me, then you can get out of this room right now. And if you make another threat against Anders you can get out of this fucking house. No, _this city,_ ” Anders hadn’t heard Hawke so dangerous since Alesis; he curled closer and felt Hawke’s arm tighten around him, “do I make myself clear?”

Silence, but for the sounds of distress Anders was unable to stop. He felt Hawke’s kiss against his temple, a hushed reassurance at his ear.

He did not look up to see if Callum heeded Hawke’s words. Behind his closed eyelids all Anders could see were the glowing lines of connection, creating a patchwork of magic across Kirkwall that could spell doom for all of its inhabitants were the knowledge to fall into the wrong hands. And, as far as he knew, there was no way to tell whether or not Meredith too had gained that knowledge.

Or, in truth, whether it was Meredith they truly needed to fear anymore.


	17. Memento

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short intermediary chapter before the next big ark in the plot, in which our three main heroes reflect. Written from their own POV's.

**( _Hawke_ )**

He was asleep, which made things easier for many reasons. For one, Hawke found it simpler to dress Anders' wounds when the man was unconscious; mainly because he felt he could react with anger or pain without thinking when cleaning out the gouges on his pale back, or the white, ruffled skin of his burns. For another, he didn't have to hear the words coming out of the man's mouth and think about the fact that this would clearly not be the last time Hawke would be required to do this.

At moments like those he tended to sit down on the nearest chair, put his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands and just _breathe_.

Just breathe.

_Just breathing, that was all he was doing now. When Hawke slowly closed the door behind him without making a sound, he could see that his father was still asleep from the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath the blanket. For a moment he remembered when he was younger how he used to sneak in just like this after he'd had a nightmare, shaking and crying, and tug at his father's shirt._

“Come on, Garret, just a dream _,” his father would mumble sleepily before letting Garret crawl in between him and his mother._

_Now he was sneaking in with just as much trepidation, and yet the nightmare was not about giant spiders or wolves. His father was dying._

_His father was dying and there was nothing anyone could do about it._

_He took the lone seat beside the bed and watched him as he slept. His hands and his face...he seemed well, he seemed too young, he seemed...Hawke sighed and rubbed his face. He knew that the disease was not visible. Even father would not tell him what had caused his sudden decline in health. Ever since there had been rumours of darkspawn his father had seemed grim. He had become reclusive and short in temper with mother one moment, before becoming melancholy and ashamed the next._

_Then the coughing had started. Garret liked to think of his father as the wisest and strongest man he knew, or would ever know. Now he had to try and keep that ideal alive as he stared at the man, weak and crippled in his bed. Leaving them._ Leaving me. _Garret felt for the green gem necklace his father had given him two days earlier, hanging around his neck by a leather thong. It felt warm to the touch. He gripped it tightly, once, before slipping it back beneath his shirt._

“Dad,” _he finally said because he couldn't stand the silence, reaching out to take the limp hand resting on the blue blanket; the light outside was bright, shining almost white through the mist that had risen up from the river that morning, “_ Dad, you awake? _”_

_His father's eyes opened fully, staring straight at him. It was so sudden that Garret started backwards, mouth opening on instinct but with nothing to say._

“Your mother said not to come in here didn't sh...” _the authoritative voice was ruined by a sudden fit of the coughing, rattling in his father's chest like the sound of coal rolling around in the scuttle._

“I brought some honey water,” _Garret said, lifting the flask; his father batted it away._

“No, no,” _after a few moments of heavy breathing his father closed his eyes and opened them again, glassy with regret,_ “you should go, son. Your mother needs you more than I do.”

“She's asleep,” _Garret lied,_ “I thought I'd see how you were doing and...”

“Garret.”

_There were only two times in his life when he'd hear his father speak in such a serious tone: when telling him the reason to avoid templars and speaking about magic, and after the incident with Vincent Farthern. He felt cold without knowing why, reaching once more for his father's hand. His father turned with difficulty and stared into his son's eyes._

“You'll look after them Garret,” _he said urgently,_ “Leandra and Carver, and little Bethany most of all. You'll keep them safe from harm.”

“Of...of course!” _Garret replied, gripping tighter to the chill hand in his grasp;_ why was it so cold?, “why would you even ask...?”

“Look after your family,” _his father said, smiling so crookedly that it seemed as a grimace,_ “they are what is important now, understand son?”

“Dad, please...”

“Look after them.”

“Dad just wait, please, just wait. We won't need to worry because you'll get better. You'll get better and you won't need to worry about anything. Bethany will be fine, we'll all be fine,” _Garret let out a slightly hysterical laugh,_ “see, you must agree with me. When is the last time you let me ramble on for so long without telling me to...”

_It was at that moment that Garret Hawke realised that his father had not said a word to interrupt him, and that the hand in his grasp was now as cold as ice._

Sitting in that chair beside the bed of his sleeping love, Garret felt cold and wasted in spirit. Everything inside of him was knots of fear and regret. He had not been able to keep his promise to his father and now his family was either dead or imprisoned. All that he had left was the man beside him whose hand he picked up every time he entered the room, just to make sure it was still warm.

* * *

 

**( _Anders)_**

Fjandi.

The book sat before him, much as it had months before. Still filled with the knowledge of a man who believed he knew everything there was to know about the Fade and its inhabitants. It felt like a memory, if a memory could be tangible, physical. He could remember being so sure, so curious and arrogantly righteous. The book was a symbol of his ignorance, of the ignorance of the world. Still ornate and glittering, as if enticing its readers to look inside, much in the same way that a demon took on a pleasing form to entice its victims. Leaving them struggling to understand what they were before.

Struggling to understand what he was. Where he fitted in, if he did anywhere. Maybe it was sometimes simpler to think that he could be utterly alone, disconnected from the world, cut the thread that held him tied to this life, this responsibility and...

 _No_ , that's what he told himself when he focused on it for too long. _No_. There was no more running, not any more. This was his life as much as it was anyone else's; a mission that someone needed to accept.

Beneath his hand the pages felt cool, like untouched snow, the ridges of the gold leaf rough under his fingertips and the minute holes along the edges where the scribe had pricked the vellum to keep the lines straight made it feel all the more like the skin it was.

 _Written on skin_ . The though made him lick his lips uneasily. A book of demons written on physical animal skin. It seemed too close somehow, close to giving the unthinkable a physical form. _A memory came then, of stepping forwards towards Denarius and his shifting Shades and watching the creatures wail in fright, shrieking their way back into the Fade as if terrified of what stood before them._

Somehow, he found the wherewithal to let out a small laugh as he turned the pages, catching words here and there that spoke of simple human failings: desire, wrath, pride, so many others built around the naïve understanding of their egotistical race. At times he felt the need to cling to it, his own lost innocence. Sometimes he wished that the reality he’d been born into would take him back, receive him into its arms and shield him from the truth.

Honestly, he knew better than to wish for that now. The truth was always paramount, that was what Anders thought, it just managed to make things a lot lonelier than they had been before. Being part of a collective obliviousness was at least reassuring. Ignorance truly was bliss.

Knowing…knowing even the little he could comprehend made him feel suddenly abandoned.

 _He’d lost track of the days. Was it four?_ Surely it could not be merely four _, Anders thought._

_He was finding it difficult to breathe, a desperate creak to every lungful of air drawn painfully into his chest. Perhaps it had been from frustration, but today one of the templars had lost their temper. Beat him until he was wheezing upon the stone floor, curled in like a runt trying to hide from the pack. Oddly enough, through his dazed mind and ringing ears, he had been sure it was Meredith who had restrained the man. The more he'd dwelt upon that seeming act of kindness, he had then seen it for the lie that it was: surely she just didn't want him to die before they could take his confession. They had talked above him for a few minutes, muffled voices terse and angry, and then he had been roughly handled back to his cell and dumped there as if he were nothing but refuse._

_And now there he was, in his cell which was increasingly smelling of blood and urine as the days moved by, with what felt like two broken ribs, a fractured right arm, severe burns and bruising, as well as a stubbed toe._

_Was it four? Perhaps it was five days since he'd been tossed into the pit. Perhaps it was ten? Maker, perhaps it was months, not days. How long had it been since he’d felt the sun against his skin? Heard the voice of another that wasn't thick with hate and scorn? Those things seemed far away from him now, as if they would never return._

_Memories of the Circle tower had been pricking at him since he’d descended into this hell. The longer it took to find what he needed, the more desperate and claustrophobic the situation became. The more difficult it became to tell what day it was. He’d found himself mumbling words to no one like he’d used to do during his yearlong incarceration, pacing his cell just to keep his legs working. Singing songs to try and judge the passage of time. Sometimes he let himself sleep, dream of things that could not possibly be; the good and the bad. And every second of every moment of every ticking of time he reminded himself that he-needed-to-be-here._

_Still. He wished he’d never…never said yes._ Such a fool, Anders _, he told himself_ , such a bloody fool _. As he lay there, wracked with pain and able to do nothing to soothe or heal himself it was easy to despair._

What if they never let you go? _That was a constant thought. What if you’re stuck here forever, or until they hold you under the water a little too long and they drown you? Or set you alight with too much oil and you die screaming in flames?_

_He’d vomited up what little was in his stomach at that thought, stinging bile against his raw throat. Thankfully he had the wherewithal to crawl to the other side of the cell so as not to accidentally lie in his own filth._

“ _Fucking bloody stupid arsehole,” he whispered to himself, “what are you? That’s right, you know what. Maker,” he closed his eyes and allowed a brief but tangibly harrowing moment of grief to slip; for a few minutes all he could do was sob into his hand, feeling the tears cascade across his cheeks. The action made his ruined chest convulse with stabbing agony. When he eventually stopped it was a relief. A strange sort of relief, “no. No. You’re not here to die. You’re not here to die.”_

 _Steadily, after he had choked down his misery and lay breathing on the floor, the knocking began again. From somewhere near, very near, he heard it._ _A sound like stone-song, as the dwarves called it: steady, rhythmic, constant. Anders listened as it clanked and banged, as if being rung against his very bones._

_And as he listened he reminded himself exactly why he was here._

Or at least he’d thought he’d known why he’d gone to that pit of the Black. To find answers from the one man he thought might be able to provide them. Now? He wasn’t sure if he’d found any answers at all. Instead he felt as if a curse had been passed onto him like a baton in those silly races the Orlesians played at, passed from one to the other until someone inevitably dropped it.

Only no one had dropped this, and he was now a link in a very long chain.  
  
The time between his frenzied first waking and now had given him time to put everything in perspective, if there was a perspective to have on such things. He felt that perspective may be skewed so badly that it was like looking through a fancy glass prism into a magnifying glass and then through a kaleidoscope: so fractured and dazzling and out of focus that it was barely comprehensible.  
  
At first he had expected catastrophe. The stories he had been told in his youth by stern faced Enchanters and pale skinned templars had come rushing back, with their warning of the first Magisters who had dared to trespass upon the floors of the Golden City, corrupting it with their human desires. Anders had spent the first night sleeplessly rigid, terrified that he might have misunderstood what it meant to walk physically in the Fade, of what the consequences might be if he was wrong.  
  
But the heavens had not opened and demons had not rained from the skies and the world had not ended. He took it as a good sign that his trespassing into the Fade as a physical being had not been the cataclysm he’d feared it might be. Not that it lessened the sheer magnificence and unbelievably insane nature of his gift…just that he did not still feel the raging fear and hysteria he had after waking from his nightmare of the Black City.  
  
A nightmare he now questioned daily. Had it been a nightmare? Had he truly been there, or had the Fade played with his fears and dreams to form a living hell? After being trapped beneath Meredith’s iron prison for days upon end Anders’ mind had become a bleak landscape, filled with everything he was most afraid of. Had that landscape been manifested through his strong connection to the Fade? Or had it been real..?  
  
_No_ , he reassured himself as he closed the book and stood up, _it was just a dream. Just a waking dream that manifested itself physically. I am not yet so arrogant as to assume I understand the workings of the Fade, even if I am granted entrance to it. Who’s to say the mind is not able to influence its very structure?_  
  
However, the fear did not dissipate. Anders often questioned whether he should have sought out Barnaby at all, and whether or not he may have inadvertently entered into a rash, new, terrifying bargain, much as he had done with Justice when they had joined souls. It weighed heavily on his conscience and Anders talked with Hawke every moment he could, sometimes calm and rational, others frenzied and terrified. Perhaps the most startling thing had been how calm Garret stayed, an anchor for Anders to hold; he could not be dragged into Anders’ bizarre worries and unfounded fears, and instead remained solid and unmovable.  
  
“You know I don’t believe in that rot,” he would say as they sat facing each other, Hawke holding Anders’ hands tightly.  
  
Callum, on the other hand...  
  
On the fourth day after waking, while Hawke was feeding him soup from a large bowl and talking about nothing and everything, Anders had piped up.  
  
“Where’s Callum? He said he was thinking about…” Anders had stopped, frowning; it wasn't something he wanted to believe, “no, I don’t remember. He hasn't come by for a while, have you seen him?”  
  
“…No, I haven’t seen him,” Hawke had sighed after a pause, looking resigned; Anders knew what Hawke was going to say before he even said it, and it made his chest ache, “in fact no one has. Varric told me yesterday that he’d tried to track him down to offer him somewhere to stay but even Varric’s contacts couldn’t find him. He’s not come back to the mansion since…”  
  
It was a sentence that did not need to be finished. Anders knew fine well what had driven Callum off. Yet the thought that it had driven Callum to leave? Leave him here. _He was already planning to escape Kirkwall,_ Anders tried to reason, _he was counting on you leaving with him._ Anders tried to hold onto that thought as a consolation, while another part of him mourned the fact that everything he did from now on would result in driving away those he loved the most.

* * *

  
**( _Callum_ )**  
  
The night was bitter, but the inn was warmed by a log fire and many jovial, half drunk bodies gathered around old oak tables soaked in ale and spirits. He'd chosen a spot in the corner by the window because it was quiet and a little dark; enough that no one else wanted to approach him. By his feet Sascha lay curled under the table, her eyes large and mournful. When Callum reached down to stroke her head she let out a tired grunt.  
  
Callum sighed and took a long drink of ale. It had been a long two days journey, made only a little shorter by the horse he'd been given. In all honesty he couldn't tell if his parting had been bitter sweet or simply bitter. Hawke was a hard man to read at the best of times, but when Callum had announced his departure to the man...  
  
It had been an odd moment. One in which Callum seemed to sense Hawke's relief that he was finally going to quit their presence and leave them in peace, but also sense that Hawke knew that for Anders, Callum sneaking away like a thief in the night was the most cowardly way to hurt him.  
  
And also odd because he'd finally realised that Hawke wasn't as vindictive as Callum liked to paint him as.  
  
“ _Where will you go_?” the man had asked, standing by the windows in the large sitting room where, only days before he and Hawke had planned the blackmailing of dozens of noble families to secure Anders' return. It seemed like a lifetime ago now.  
  
“ _Not sure yet. Maybe try and go along the coast to Ostwick and get a boat over to Ferelden. The port here will be too heavily patrolled_.”  
  
“ _I agree,_ ” Hawke had nodded, “ _you'll be needing transport_.”  
  
“ _I'm used to walking_ ,” Callum shook his head, “ _besides..._ ”  
  
“ _I'll get you a horse Callum, and don't worry_ ,” Hawke had seemed to try his best to smile but it came out tired and blank, “ _you won't have to steal the money this time_.”  
  
It was odd. He wasn't used to this sort of generosity; the sort which had been earned. Sometimes he did dirty work for his rewards, or something quick and simple for room and board or food or drink. Most of the time he simply stole what he needed to: money, food, somewhere to sleep, someone's heart for a quick night of sex. Having friends that did him favours wasn't something he was used to.  
  
Having friends he didn't want to leave wasn't something he was used to either. People who knew him well enough to have the right to call him by his name and shake his hand.  
  
To tell the truth, Callum Crummock was a name given to him by someone with no right to give it. Sister Giselle was her name. She had been the one to tell him that he had no parents, and always make him feel indebted to the Chantry for raising his worthless hide. Those parents, it turned out, had been a rather tragic story, one which he had been sheltered from until he was eleven years old and his magical ability had started to show. Sister Giselle had died when he was eight, and his care had been passed on to her apprentice, Sister Hannah, a stern woman with cold, righteous eyes. Wen she had caught him lighting twigs aflame with nothing but his hands she had cursed him as a sinner and taken him by the arm.  
  
“ _You have your mother's demon in you, child!”_  
  
And his young ears had been told the story of his mother, a young mage in the Ostwick circle, and his father, a now disgraced templar who had bedded her. He had been born in the Circle and taken straight from his mother's arms, screaming for her, and into the cold, stone walled, lie of a life at the Chantry.  
  
He had never learned either of their names. Sometimes, when he was younger, he liked to make up names for them. Mary and Keith; Mary had long blonde hair which had enchanted his father, and they had loved each other passionately. Cynthia and Ross; Cynthia was small with a love-heart shaped face and dark hair, she had been in love with his father for years before she managed to work up the courage to confront him and, in one night of passion, he had been conceived. Rachael and George; Rachael was a proud, arrogant woman with unsurpassed magical talent, and his father had been a timid mouse of a man whom she had seduced. The many faces of his parents who were never given the chance to love him.  
  
The only thing he had of his mother was his magical ability, which of course had landed him in the Ostwick circle at the age of eleven; the same jail where his mother had birthed him. It had been no real surprise that he had spent his entire teenage life planning his escape, never tying himself down with friends or lovers. What was the point if he was going to leave them behind anyway?  
  
And once he was out and free he wanted to be as far away from that place as possible! No need to have friends tying him to one place, or lovers begging him not to leave. He had picked up Luce and Sascha because they were the same as he was, stray dogs left to steal and beg their food on the streets of Wycome. They were drifters, just like he was. They would never tie him down because their wanderlust matched his own. They were a nomad family, always moving, never caught.  
  
Caught. He hated the connotation of the word, and yet he didn't think there was a better one to describe what he had become. Caught by one man's fiery, passionate, kind, funny, terrifying nature which burned him even as it consumed him. A man who he needed above almost all other things, and yet was impossible to reconcile with his view of the world. A man who he loved, but now could not stand the thought of staying with and learning to hate.  
  
The ale in his flagon was a little warm, but he didn't mind. Drinking it down took the edge off a little, making the pain less evident. Callum sighed and rubbed at his tired eyes as the other residents of the inn burst into a roar of shared laughter and dirty chuckles over something or other. The low ceiling forced him to stoop as he stood, patting his leg to summon Sascha to follow him to their small room on the next floor up.  
  
Ostwick was only another days ride away. He liked to think that he was only going there in order to catch a boat to Ferelden, but truthfully he knew that he wanted to say goodbye. Say goodbye to his life as he had known it, and try to make the best of what he had left.

 


End file.
